


Interludes of  My Still Beating Heart

by mephestopheles



Series: Interludes of My Still Beating Heart [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, Tolkien - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Demisexual Thorin, Dwarven Politics, Ereborean politics aren't all that pretty either but somewhat more open maybe?, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Gen, Gender politics, Hobbit Culture, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Hobbit, Slow Build, Tags Added per Chapter, Thorin is in desperate need of some hand holding at this point, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transman Bilbo, Transphobia, Violence, Warnings added per chapter, canon has been slow roasted in an oven set @ 225 and carved for it's juicy bits, hobbit politics, please read the notes, reworking canon to suit my needs, the shire is not all sunshine and roses, writer does not endorse the views held by their characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 96,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is born during a shifting political landscape, Thror has chosen to ignore millennia of tradition to ensure a new heir of Durin. The King goes so far as to not only determine the newborns gender but also ensure it with the help of the choosing stones. </p><p>Bilbo Baggins is born and rumours spread that there is something not right in the Baggins household. Going against years of custom, Belladonna and Bungo decide to let Bilbo choose who they wish to be. </p><p>This is the story of choice and consequence, and how the choice of one can affect so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dragon Comes to Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> A big around of applause and thanks and cookies sent to Strivingartist for their beta help, especially with wrangling my ever present run-on sentences. And, Bearujeria for the alpha read when I panicked horribly about this thing!! This is my entry into [The Hobbit Story Big Bang](http://thehobbitstory.livejournal.com/). This is my freshman effort in this fandom and it's a doozy. 
> 
> **Please pay attention to warnings and tags as they will be added to by chapter**
> 
> The warnings are pretty light for this chapter, but please, when I mention them, I'm serious. I really don't want to unintentionally trigger someone. This entire fic is going to be dealing heavily with transphobia, homophobia, gender and sexuality. Please, please tell me if I'm not warning for something. I'm hoping to catch everything, but I'm not sure how to warn for some of this. 
> 
> Also I would like to mention that any horrible views expressed in this fic are not the views felt by the writer!! This is an exploratory piece of fiction. I wanted to take a deeper look into the moral grey area that The Hobbit movies gave us of the Shire. I'm from a small town, I've lived small town politics and I'm exploring a lot of that as this fic progresses.
> 
> I'll be posting between 1 - 2 chapters a week as they're ready and should have everything posted by June 10th. 
> 
> Also I'm Mephestopheles-under-the-oaktree on tumblr, hit me up.

** A Dragon Comes to Erebor **

The Royal birthing chamber was alight with activity. Dwarven births were a celebration from the moment of the first pangs, and family was always a part of such things. A royal birth held all the joy of a regular birth, but also carried an exalted celebration for the future of the house. 

The royal House of Durin would receive a new babe this day. Haldis daughter of Harda, married to Thrain, son of Thror, had gone into labour in the early morning hours before the first bells chimed the hour to break repast. Her confinement was about to come to an end, for which she was immensely grateful.

She was ushered with all pomp and circumstance into the Royal birthing chamber and set upon a soft bed of furs and downy comforts. She was dressed by her maidens in waiting in one of her finest white dressing gowns. Her hair and beard were brushed and combed by her sister and clasped into place so they would not unwind during the birth itself.

The court awaited the princess outside her chamber until she was ready to receive them.She bit her lip as dull pressure spread across her abdomen and her belly contracted sharply. Her hair and fingers were adorned with gems: fire opal for cheerfulness and enthusiasm, garnet for creativity, stamina, and a powerful mind, moonstone for fertility, intuition, love, and luck, and black tourmaline for protection.

She had chosen the gems personally, her way to honour her newborn child. Once they were older, the gems would be recut and refashioned into items just for them; their first bead, a clasp for a cloak, a comb, and several rings. With the final piece secured, Haldis gave a firm nod to open the doors.

Thrain reached her first and took her hand as another pain stole her breath. Followed by Thror, his advisors, Fundin and Nali. The rest filled the audience seats at the outer edge of the room, close enough to say they were witness to a birth, but out from under the feet of the midwives and Haldis’ maids.

“You are stunning, my treasure,” Thrain whispered and kissed the tips of her fingers.

“Oh you flatterer, you’re just hoping I do not curse you to Mahal himself for putting me in this state,” she said as a contraction eased. She pressed her hand to his chin and smiled. “Fear not, husband, very soon you shall have an Heir.”

The first stage continued apace as contractions alternated with periods of rest. The midwives and maids hurried about the room in a chaos that only they could recognize as order. As labour progressed and her pains increased, squires drew in a set of curtains that closed the audience chamber from the rest of the birth.

It offered little in the way of privacy, but ensured that only the closest of advisors and kin would see the princess in such a compromising position. Haldis cared not. ‘Let them gawk,’ she thought fiercely.

Another pain ripped through her and she let out a cry. It took some moments of heavy breathing for the pain to ease. She did not get any rest though as fingers slid along her sex, one of the midwives betwixt her legs again.

“You are open, my lady. On the next pain, we start to push.”

Haldis managed a nod and sank back into the pillows once more. Thrain never moved, never wavered in his place by her side. Another pain started across her belly, a deep long ache that settled deep into her pelvis. With a groan, Haldis pushed, sweat pooled on her brow and fell into her eyes and she let out a cry as the pressure became too much and was suddenly gone.

She gasped and clung to her husband and sister. Too soon and another contraction tore into her and she pushed against it, bearing down and heaving an heir into the world.

A squalling cry pierced the air and Haldis let out a thankful prayer to Mahal for giving them this gift. She opened her eyes and looked to the midwife. “Well, how do they fair?”

“Healthy and whole, my lady.” The midwife uttered as she swaddled the tiny child the royal colours. Before she could hand the babe to Haldis, Thror took hold of the babe.

“A grandson then!” He proclaimed. “Have you a name chosen for him yet?” 

“T-Thorin, father.” Thrain said and looked between Haldis and their child.

“Excellent. You are hereby named Thorin II, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, and Heir to the line of Durin. So shall it be.” Thror kissed Thorin’s small forehead and presented the child to those in audience.

Haldis watched through tired eyes and she grasped her husband’s hand tight. He kissed her forehead, though he said nothing. It was some moments later before she was finally given the chance to hold her own child, and only because they started crying in earnest for food.

Eventually the audience dispersed and finally the king. Only Haldis and Thrain were left with their child as they sucked heartily.

“Thrain.”

“I know, ghivashel,” he whispered and cupped his hand gently behind their child’s head.

“Even royal children are given the right to choose, Thrain. Why has your father deemed it necessary to throw out thousands of years of progress? What is he getting at?” She might have been tired, bone weary after the birth,but there was anger and it heated a fire in her belly and heart and it would not be quenched until she had answers. Her child should be given the right to choose. The right to be whom and what they are.

Thrain looked tired suddenly, as if there was weight that pressed on his shoulders. She had seen it before, but only in brief glimpses. This, this was more than a glimpse, more than a simple look. “I wish I had the answer, my wife. For now though, we must follow his edicts. Our child is a son. And succession will fall to him after I am gone.”

“And if our child states otherwise?”

“You did say you wanted more than one child, yes? Perhaps Thorin will be lucky and we’ll give Thror several heirs to choose from.” 

Haldis sighed and clutched Thorin to her breast. “So, our child’s hopes and dreams are to be tied to the possibility of siblings?” She closed her eyes and sent a prayer to Mahal. “I will do as the king commands. Though I like it not.” She spat. “But know this husband, should Thorin choose a different path, I will not let anyone come between them and their destiny. Not you, not me, and certainly not-“ A hand came over her mouth and Thrain hissed harshly.

“You speak another word and it is treason. I know your heart, amrâlimê. I would not ask you to go against it, but keep it in your heart, and not where walls can hear.”

*

The official naming ceremony occurred just three days after the birth. The throne room was a riot of people and noise. Homage was to be paid to the new heir of Durin. Elves from the Greenwood and Imladris, men from Rohan and Gondor, even two wizards were in attendance. Dwarrow from all over Arda were present with representatives from the seven clans.

The noise echoed throughout the chamber, and Thorin yelled against her chest. She shushed her child and rocked them gently as the crowd settled and silence descended on the room. 

The king, her father in law, stepped from the dais and addressed the crowd. She didn’t listen to him, refused to listen to him proclaim her child a boy and heir. This whole thing was a travesty, a mockery of thousands of years of dwarven achievement and tradition. Naming ceremonies were held after the child came of age, when they would choose their own name and own path.

Rarely were they held any early than a child’s tenth birthday. But this, her babe was practically still wet from birth, and here she was standing where all could see her shame as she handed her child over to the king. She wanted to scream, call out against this whole thing. She lifted her foot a bare inch and Thrain grasped her hand tight, their rings pinching at skin.

Neither spoke, not a word was whispered between them, nor did she take a breath. She revealed nothing of the tumultuous storm that raged in her breast. Fine, she would keep her peace, she would swallow this indignity, and she would give her child the best she could. But Mahal help the king, should he slip but one inch.

“With this child, with this son of my son, we usher in a new age for our people. In front of all assembled here, Dwarves, Elves, and Men, I hereby name you, Thorin II, son of Thrain, Son of Thror, Heir to the Kingdom of Erebor, Duke of the Crystal Hills, and Lord of Silver Fountains. May your skill never waver, and may Mahal bless the path you walk.” 

Gems were bestowed on the babe, garnets, opals, citrine, and diamonds, among many others. Among them, rest a pale red stone that glittered with a light all its own. Unlike the others that were set in gold or silver or mithril, this was on a simple leather cord. It was uncut; only the barest polish smoothing the edge. Haldis knew of these stones. Had seen them all her life, her sister wore one on her wrist, and it shone with a faint golden hue. Her sister was given it in her tenth year after she told everyone in the family she was to be a girl from now on.

Now her child wore one, and not of their choosing. Haldis took a deep breath and greeted the assembled guests. She did all that was required of her as princess, and mother of the new heir. She smiled and laughed at their jokes and she accepted gifts and well wishes until late in the evening.

It was only after she closed the door to her private apartments, after the servants and her maids left for the night, and she was alone with her child that she wept. She held her little one to her breast and whispered thick apologies as tears slid down her cheeks.

*

Thorin was four when she delivered another child. Another healthy child that Thrain once again claimed as a son of Durin. Another child that wore a red stone against their skin, years too early. Haldis had long since buried her grief over the decisions that were taken from her, taken from her children.

But the anger, the white hot rage that set her breast afire and left her gasping at night when the shadows hid her pain, that had changed. It cooled, it settled deep into her bones and hardened to fine mithril. It fueled her days and interactions with the court. She became known as the glittering princess. Made of ice and stone, not fire. There was not a fire that could warm Princess Haldis.

She wrapped herself in that the cloak of cold and protected her children from all else. It was accepted practice that a mother could be free of guild duties until such time as the children were old enough. But Haldis grew tired of court life and returned to the Mithril Guild three weeks following Frerin’s birth.

Thorin and Frerin joined her in the halls of the Smiths: played and slept and bothered the other dwarrow as was their right. They were not treated as princes within the guild halls. They were treated as any other child of the guild would be treated. Frerin was passed around and adored, and Thorin was doted on.

In the private halls of the Mithril smiths, Haldis taught her children their heritage, the stories of the past, sung the ballads of their forebears while she hammered silver steel into gorgeous rings, stunning circlets. The metal was one of her favourites and it always sang to her.

All too soon, Thorin was taken into the halls of learning and taught by scholars and scribes of the royal house. They put a sword in his hand, and dressed him in the clothing of a prince and he stopped being her child. He became a prince of Erebor, but remained the jewel of her heart.

She birthed a third and final child in the winter of 2760. This time, Thror did not grace the audience chamber, nor did he make any proclamations. The gold sickness was winning. She could see it, even during confinement with only her husband and children as visitors she could feel the change in the kingdom. The anxiety among the servants, and the royal guards.

It was a horrible thing, an awful horrible thing to suffer. In the haze of post labour, as she fed her newborn child and blessed them with their secret name and whispered stories of the great ones as they supped, a small, vindictive part of her rejoiced.

*

Thorin loved the Guild Halls. Each one was a glittering declaration of the love of craft and skill. The Mithril Guild Halls held many memories from childhood. Fond ones of his mother singing as she worked the metal into such wonderful shapes. Her voice as pure and clear as the silversteel she worked with. She glittered to him, shone with a light he could never hope to capture.

Sometimes he would sit and listen to her sing and tell stories, only to fall asleep and wake up in her arms as she carried him and Frerin as if they weighed nothing. Other times he would race through the guild hall and find places to hide and secret entrances and exits to go exploring further and further.

One of his explorations lead him along a winding path up and up and up until he felt the cold rush of wind and the smell of something fresh on the air. He stepped out of the path and gasped as the floor fell away from the Cliffside and the ceiling expanded way beyond his head, so high and dark it seemed to go on forever.

It shone and twinkled and he wondered if they were diamonds or perhaps crystal. They glittered though and were very pretty. Some lights were closer and they winked in and out and he chased them around the slope for a long time never quite catching one.

Only when his breaths came in great heaving gusts did he slow down and stop to flop on the rocky floor. He laid there and looked up at the glittering ceiling and tried to count the diamonds. But he was still only young and could only count so high and he had to start over again.

And then a tiny flickering light landed on his nose. He held his breath and tried not to move an inch. Whatever it was, it was magical and he had to show his mother. Ever so carefully he caught the dancing light and clutched it in his hands and ran as fast as he could through the sloping path.

He kept looking to make sure the light didn’t go out and it flickered rapidly and bounced between his hands.

“Amad!”

“Thorin! Where have you been?” 

Thorin stopped in his tracks. He’d never heard his mother sound like that, and there were so many guards around her. Amad picked him up and squeezed him so tight he felt the air leave his lungs and he squeaked against her neck. “You had the entire mountain in an uproar. You can’t go running off like that. I didn’t know where you were.”

“I found something I wanted to show you, amad. I’m sorry.” He wriggled in her arms and held out his hands. The little glow light flickered in his palm, blinked then took to the air again. “OH! Hurry! Catch it, it’s for amad!”

“You brought me a lightning bug? How did you get outside the mountain, Thorin?”

He pointed behind him, back where he came. “I took one of the paths. It was all twisty and rather small in places, but big enough for me. I found a huge room with twinkling diamonds in the ceiling and all those glow lights around. I wanted to give you one, but now it’s gone.” He furrowed his brow and looked up at amad. “I’ll have to get you another one. They’re very pretty, yes?” 

It was then that he learned about the sky, and the stars, and that he would not be allowed to go back to his cave anymore. He was sent off to the royal scholars and was made to learn his letters and the histories, the elvish languages, which were slick and slippery and hard to understand, much like the elves he’d seen.

At the age of six he was taken to the practice yard and given a sword. Practice was ruthlessly difficult and Thorin was quite positive he’d never get the hang of it.

His personal guard was a large and terrifying dwarf by the name of Dwalin. He was a newer guard, and Thorin was to be his job. He also carried around two large axes and a sword at his hip and Thorin was quite sure older dwarf could teach him better than the stuffy old masters.

“Please Dwalin.” Thorin and his bodyguard stood up on the ramparts that looked out above the front gates of the city. A bright spring sun shone and glittered against the pillars.

“No.”

“Please. I can give you a title.”

Dwalin snorted. “You’re six. They’re not going to listen to a whelp like you. The answer is, no.” Dwalin bent down so that he was eye to eye with Thorin and Thorin gulped. “Besides, we’re cousins. I have a title all my own. I don’t need a spoiled princeling handing them out for fun.”

Thorin groaned and kicked Dwalin in the shin. Tried to at least. The elder dwarf was quite fast and had him on the ground and seeing stars before he could connect. He let out a grunt as air rushed from his lungs, and he blinked and stared up at the ceiling until the stars disappeared.

Thorin hopped up and bounced on the balls of his feet. “You _have_ to show me how to do that.” 

“Really now, and what would you do with it?”

“Easy, trip Frerin.”

“Oh, so you want to trip your younger brother.”

“Yes, among other things.”

Dwalin bent his knee to look Thorin in the eye, and the dwarfling gulped as he aborted a move to back away from his bodyguard.

“You realize, I’m a younger brother. And younger brothers should stick together. Perhaps I should go and teach Frerin a thing or two…”

Thorin let out an indignant squeak and quickly covered his mouth. “Please. I can’t keep getting my ass handed to me in front of everyone. The others won’t stop laughing.” He felt his cheeks heat up at the admission and slumped against one of the pillars. “I’m not supposed to be laughed at.”

Dwalin leaned on the rampart wall that looked out over the southern edge of the city and the wilderness beyond. “You’re a prince, Thorin. You’re going to be king someday. You might expect to be held in high regard, but make no mistake, people will still laugh. It’s not your job to be perfect in all things you do, every time you do them. It is your duty to apply yourself to everything you do, to show that you may make mistakes and falter like the rest of us, but you will not give up, even when they laugh, even when the world is against you.”

Thorin refused to look up at Dwalin. That was not what he had heard from the scholars. Not even what he’d heard from his grandfather. He felt a sharp tug at his ear and he looked over to Dwalin. “So they can laugh at me, I get it.” 

“No, ye don’t get it,” Dwalin said. “Your hardest job is going to be getting back up when you falter. Because in your case there will be many more people wanting you to fail. Wanting to see you collapse under all the pressure that being prince and king will bring to you. That want to see that Durin’s line has finally run its course. So long as you keep getting back up, you’ll never fail, Thorin. Not ever. So aye, I’ll train ye, but you’re not going to like it. Not a bit.” 

*

At fourteen, Thorin was given further responsibilities including attending court with his father and grandfather. He was to spend most of the morning listening to meetings with guild lords and masters and advisors and diplomats from Dale and the Greenwood. He was not allowed to speak, only listen, and it was dreadfully boring at times. But if he didn’t pay attention, Dwalin would trounce him in the practice yard after.

His bodyguard had taken it upon himself to become the most obnoxious dwarf, Thorin had ever met. He trained him with ax and sword, even spear and quarterstaff and archery – though Thorin admitted he was rubbish with a bow. The weapons training was not enough though; Dwalin was with him during all of his meetings with the council and took it upon himself to drill him about the meetings and his opinions on the matters of state. All the while beating him with the flat of a sword, or putting him through his paces with this weapon or that.

Hand to hand combat and political discussions became the bedrock of their afternoons. Every time Thorin thought he had won, either in physical combat or their discussions, Dwalin would fight dirty, or suggest an opinion he hadn’t thought about, or dismissed as ridiculous. Dwalin came across as a brute and foot soldier. Thorin watched him interact with the other guards and the weapon masters and he rarely offered an opinion that differed from the others. Or he’d be crude, intentionally so with his fellow guardsman, laughing, too big and too loud. But with Thorin he showed a quick and agile mind, sharper than the edge he kept on his axes. He was sarcastic, and dry, and there was never a word or phrase out of place.

Thorin often found himself contemplating mining rights from the floors of practice grounds as he tried to drag air into his lungs. He had to learn to think fast, not only to answer the rapid-fire questions that Dwalin pelted him with, but also to anticipate the other dwarf’s moves lest he be hit with a sword, or dumped on the ground.

It was difficult, horribly difficult work, and it never ended. But he never complained, never balked at the duties he was expected to perform. As he neared his fifteenth birthday he was avidly being sought by the Guilds. His mother’s mithril guild was chief amongst them,though any guild would have considered themselves blessed to count a Prince in their number.

Thorin didn’t have the patience for gold and the softer metals. Harder materials, iron, steel, even mithril--he could work with ease. Thorin had picked up his father’s affinity for gem cutting and all his people were carvers of one kind or another.

It was important for him to choose a Guild to belong to, to add his mark to the world. All dwarrow children were taught the basics from the time they could hold a hammer. Now though, with his fifteenth year coming upon him it was time to decide where his strengths lay.

Craft was highly prized and no dwarrow was expected to make that decision without careful thought. Some knew from the minute they picked up an instrument, be it a hammer or a knife or a quill. For others, it took them years to really find something that spoke to them. Thorin’s gifts were of a practical nature and he took to smithing weapons with unrepressed glee.

After he joined the Weapons Guild, Thorin spent early mornings and late nights by the forge to practice and hone his abilities. Between those sessions, he would attend meetings with his father, visit with his grandfather in court, and then train more with his mentor Dwalin. In many ways his life felt not his own, more a series of duties to be performed. Thorin’s life was a war, a battle between duty and desire. His was a life of requirement, necessity. What kept him going, kept him moving forward, was the slow, hard won progress he made in the practice ring, the guild hall. More important than all that, was the look of regard he saw in his grandfather and father when they looked upon him.

*

As he grew, he spent more time with his father and grandfather, learning the affairs of state. Thorin could not help but swell with pride each time his father or grandfather looked at him, weighed his words, or took his suggestions. He was a young dwarf, not even old enough to grow a beard properly, he did not expect either his father or grandfather to take his opinions to heart. But they considered them nonetheless. His father asked him questions, drew out his opinions and used every opportunity as a chance to teach Thorin to become more confident in those decisions.

His grandfather did as well for a time. But those times were getting fewer and farther between. Thorin found his grandfather in the treasure room more than the hall of kings,counting coins or gems or just marvelling at the hoard of gold and wealth that filled the vast chamber.

Thorin worried.

He shared his concerns with his mother, and her face grew so cold he flinched, worried he’d angered her. In an instant he was in her arms as she held him tightly. The part of him that wished to be taken seriously as an adult warred with the still childlike part of him that needed this contact. She didn’t say anything, but later that night, Thorin could hear his parents arguing loudly in the family’s private apartments.

Thorin feared that whatever was said would get his mother in trouble, and he really wasn’t sure how Thror would handle such an issue. His grandfather’s moods were so fickle now as to be changed wildly by the barest shift of gold in the treasure room.

He didn’t have long to contemplate. His duties kept him entirely too busy, and when nothing came of it, he put it out of his mind. Summer was approaching, and the Midsummer festival was all that any of the dwarrow could talk about. It was high time for a celebration too. The mountain had been closed off for years but Thror, in one of his more magnanimous moods, had decreed that the doors would be open for the festival.

Thorin was excited. He would be exempt from his duties for a couple of days to enjoy the festivities. He had also promised to take Dis and Frerin to Dale to take part in some of their games and see their market.

The morning of the festival dawned bright and hot. Even in the mountain the air stirred little, and while the chill of the deep caves helped temper the heat inside, the closer one got to the outside the hotter it became.

Dis was ten and never had Thorin met a dwarrow who knew their own mind so well or spoke so loudly on the subject. At the age of three she had trounced her brothers in a game of marbles, declaring that she was the queen of all and they would do well to bow down to her might. Her brothers had learned very quickly that it was better to stay on ‘queen’ Dis’ good side than argue with her.

She was dressed in a purple robe, the morning of the midsummer festival, and her hair was braided most fetchingly. He tugged on one braid as he sat down to breakfast. “Very cute, namadith,” he said and kissed her temple. “You’re the picture of a queen.”

“Hey! I don’t pull your braids, nadad,” she said and giggled. “Your excuse for a beard tickles!”

He growled and picked Dis up and over his shoulder. “Insulting my beard? I should leave you here. See if I take time out of my one day off to take my ungrateful sister anywhere.”

“No! No-No! Please nadad, you promised!” She beat her tiny fists against his shoulders while he laughed. “All right, all right. All hail the grand king Thorin, may his beard be so long he steps on it. Happy?”

Thorin set her back on her feet, and pressed his forehead to hers. “Good enough.” He said with an unrepentant grin. “No, go get your things, you can’t just go in that, pretty as it is. The wind will be high on the mountain today and it will be cold when we return.”

Dis grabbed two hanks of hair on either side of his face and rubbed her nose against his. “Okay. Don’t leave without me!” She darted off through the apartment to her room.

“You spoil her.” Frerin said from the doorway.

“And you don’t?”

“You never used to spoil me like that.”

“I was four when you were born. And yes I did spoil you. Mother said if put any more gems in your crib you would choke.”

“Ah, so that’s why I shit diamonds.” 

Thorin rolled his eyes and elbowed Frerin in the ribs. A scuffle broke out between them and they ended up on the floor, wrestling. Thorin nailed Frerin several times, and Frerin gave back as good as he got. They only stopped at the sound of an imperious cough.

Thorin stilled and looked up expecting their mother. Only to see Dis standing at the doorway, dressed and ready to go travelling. “Are you two quite finished?”

They broke apart and Thorin hopped to his feet, helping Frerin to his. They both sketched a decent bow and followed after her, their personal guard in line behind them.

“What’s the matter? You look pensive.” Thorin asked. “That’s usually my look.”

“Brooding. Your look is brooding. I’m thoughtful. It’s the hair, nadad.” Frerin said a flashed a grin. It didn’t make it to his grey eyes though.

“Okay, thoughtful. Spill it.”

Frerin sighed and Thorin cast a glance at him. Frerin was as carefree as they came, and for him not to have a joke waiting or a quip about Thorin being too serious was something to be worried about. 

“I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about today.” 

“A bad feeling? What kind?”

Frerin shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, blond braids danced and the beads clinked against one another. “I can’t explain it. It feels hot, too hot. My dreams have been restless of late. Forge fires out of control one minute, stone cold forges the next. Last nights was the worst, and I can’t remember anything of it except the fear.

“Brother, I don’t think we should be leaving the mountain today.”

Thorin halted and looked fully at his brother. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Perhaps you should consult one of the seers. Portentous dreams are not something to ignore.” Thorin said.

He grasped Frerin’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I would take your warnings to heart brother, except that I fear our sister’s rage more than I fear the unknown. There are seers aplenty in Dale, we’ll stop at the first one we find.”

“Are you two coming?” 

Frerin nodded, but the pensive frown didn’t leave his face. “If you say so, nadad.”

They reached the Hall of Kings, the main entrance to the dwarven city. It was truly a testament to the craft and ingenuity of the dwarrow. Thorin would walk through the Hall of Kings and feel the weight of the ages that preceded him. Each carving carried memory and story. This Hall, this entrance, was the shining pinnacle of dwarrow achievement, more so than the throne room, or even their ancient home in Khazad Dum. Erebor and it’s glimmering, glittering entrance spoke to something deep within him. He shared a heartbeat with the mountain, and could feel it best in this chamber.

The walls canted high, as far as the eye could see, and then climbed still higher. It was one of the largest single rooms and was lined with tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of his people in centuries past. Today the front doors were open and stalls were set up for an open air market. The main market was several levels below, but this one in the Hall was open to both dwarves and men. There were crafting and smithing stalls set up side by side with the stalls from the men from Dale. Produce and fresh milk, huge rounds of cheese and links of sausage were on offer, next to stunning pieces of jewelry and masterwork swords and daggers. It was a cacophony of sound and a riot of smells.

Thorin reached out and pulled Dis back toward him before she wandered off into the crowd and out of his sight. Before she could utter a protest he shot her a look. “Stay close, I’ll not lose you in here. Otherwise we’ll never get to Dale.” Dis pouted but held her tongue.

Taking pity, he went down on bent knee and she hopped up onto his back settling onto his shoulders. When he stood she let out a whoop of delight and stared out at the crowd.

“If I stand on your shoulders nadad, together we’d be as tall as one of the Men.”

“Perhaps, but you could also fall, and then you’d be trampled by dwarrow and men alike.” 

“Oh namad, spare us that. Poor Thorin would have to defend you and then we’d have to go to war with the Men. All because our silly sister decided she wished to be tall.”

They passed through the crowd easily as dwarrow made way for them. One of the tables had an array of hair combs, delicately carved in jade, some in mithril, and still others in silver or gold. Thorin stopped and picked up the jade piece, paid for it and handed it up to his sister.

“Thorin! It’s beautiful!” She crowed and squirmed on his shoulders he let out a grunt as one of her booted feet connected with his ribs and he had to grab hold of her legs to keep from toppling over.

“Keep it up and I’ll set you down again.” He said, though there was no heat in his words. 

Frerin opened his mouth to say something, but a blast of wind from the upper levels drowned out all sound. Tapestries whipped up in a frenzy and heat filled the hall. Thorin lifted Dis from his shoulders. “Keep her safe. I’ll see what’s going on.”

“No, Thorin you promised!”

“I know, namad. And I intend to keep my promise. I will be back before you can get Frerin to buy you a matching comb.” He kissed the top of her head and darted through the crowd to the furthest wall.

Behind a tapestry, there lay a recessed door. The doors were mainly used by the guards for quick access to upper levels without being jammed by the crowd. Thorin took the stairs two at a time and reached the battlements as another blast of wind came blistering across the mountain.

He looked out over the rampart but couldn’t see anything. But the wind, the heat, the sound. It all meant one thing. The history books all spoke of it.

“Balin!” He called when he noticed the elder dwarf with the guard. “Get everyone inside. Shut the gates! Do it now!”

“What is it?”

“Dragon.” Thorin said and ran back into the hall. From the balcony above he saw the crowd, so far below. He caught sight of his brother and sister, of Dwalin and the other guards. He wouldn’t reach them in time. But maybe his warning could.

His yell echoed through the hall and panic reigned down below as dwarves ran hither and yon. His last sight of his sister was Dwalin pushing them back away from the main rush of the crowd that sought further entrance into the city.

A whistle sounded behind him and the air rushed away. It felt as if it were being sucked from the very city. Thorin yelled and grabbed for Balin, dragging him behind the stone pillar as fire erupted across the ramparts.

The rest of the attack was made of chaos and noise and panic, as he led dwarves older than his father against the massive bulk of the fire drake. It was all fear, and the sinking knowledge they had to leave, they would not--could not--survive if they stayed.

It was smoke and too little air as he raced through the city and deeper into the treasure room to find his grandfather. To find the king. In a last ditch effort he opened the main ceiling, opening the wealth of Erebor to the eyes and greed of the dragon. Thorin grabbed his grandfather from the treasure hall; dragged him up the flights of stairs and through the mountain, ushering other dwarrow to follow them.

Some did, others continued deeper into the mines. They went off to their deaths, and he cried out for them to rally to him. But fear gripped them all and they heard him not. Thror clawed at Thorin’s grip, pulling away and fighting to get back to the treasure room and his gold.

“Udad, we have to leave.” Thorin cried to no avail as Thror continued to fight him. “E'intihifi'astû, uzbade. We have to go.”

For the briefest of moments the colour in Thror’s eyes shifted and they lost their golden hue. Thror stopped fighting and with a final tug, Thorin dragged him through the palace and out of the mountain.

Thorin didn’t remember much from those terrible events. He remembered heat and smoke, ash and dust. He remembered watching in misery and disbelief as their last hope turned and walked away, leaving them to die in fire.

He also remembered Dis’ arms tight around his neck, her sobbing cries against his shoulder and her tiny trembling form as she fell asleep, shivering with cold. Night had fallen, and they were without home, without anything. That first night after the dragon fire, was the coldest in his memory.


	2. Hobbit Rumour Mills Are Worse than Elven Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is born and between decisions made by their parents, and an unfortunately unlucky omen at the moment of birth, their life isn't all that sunshiny and good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the tags for this chapter. There's going to be a lot of cis bullshit running through the chapter because my vision of the Hobbiton is a lot less all inclusive and kind. I'm hoping I've conveyed everything properly, but this chapter is not Bilbo's pov so it's still being read through a cis filter. I hope nothing is triggery, but yes there are a lot of bits of transphobia, cissexism and binary bullshit. 
> 
> Many thanks to StrivingArtist Beta help. Any errors at this point are all my own. As you can see the chapter count went up a bit. I'm working on the last two chapters now, and they will hopefully be finished this week, then it's editing and posting up until the 27th of May. One Month people and this fic will be finished.

** Hobbit Rumour Mills are Worse than Elven ones **

Belladonna Took-Baggins looked down at the fragile bundle in her arms. Her child slept, well fed, their cheeks a ruddy pink. Outside her room the two midwives were arguing in hushed tones. Belladonna could guess at the subject though in her present state she couldn't really drum up the interest to find offense.

She turned to more interesting things, such as counting tiny fingers and toes. “Never doubt yourself, my dear, my Bilbo. I wish I could promise you a life free of hardship and rumour. Your father and I will do our best.”

The bedroom door opened with a soft squeak of the hinge. The two midwives had gone, and only Bungo now stood in the door. Belladonna looked to him, took in the set of his shoulders, and the traces of fear that still lingered in his eyes. The birth had not been easy on her, but neither had it been easy on her husband.

“Come here, you silly hobbit,” she said and pat the bed.

“Meet your child.”

Bungo crossed the room and kissed Belladonna on the top of her head. He reached a tentative hand to the babe.

“The midwives, they’re in an awful state . . . I had to give them tea and two batches of your biscuits. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, darling. Birth was, difficult, but we handled it very well.”

Bungo sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t imagine a difficult birth could set those two into a state. Juniper Rumble has been a midwife for close to sixty years, and her sister Ruby, another thirty.”

Belladonna hummed and leaned to press a kiss to Bungo’s cheek. “I fear I must apologize, my husband. It seems you will lose all respectability because of me, yet again.” She said, and meant in jest, though her voice was a little too brittle to pull it off. “Bilbo was caul born.”

Belladonna could feel Bungo’s eyes on her, but she did not look up to meet his gaze. Sometimes even Took courage wasn’t enough. Bungo cleared his throat, scoffed.

“You and I were going to set tongues wagging anyway,” Bungo said quietly. “You still wish to let the little one choose?”

“Yes. I know it’s not done around here, but I feel it is right in my heart. But,” Bella sighed. “Caul born, Bungo. You know what they say, half in the veil. Ill luck comes from a caul-born, and poor Bilbo had to be cut from his. I don’t think either midwife had ever seen such a thing before.”

“Hang the rest of them. Our Bilbo is just special that’s all,” Bungo said. “We’ll do as your friends have done, and let the little one choose. The rest of the town will toss around the caul born rumour until something else more interesting comes around.” He gently took hold of the tiny child and cradle them in his hands. “You hear that my boy, you might have your work cut out for you. But your mum and I will make sure that you’re ready for it. Take after her and you’ll be able to take on the world.”

“Bungo,” Bella whispered around the lump in her throat. “Bilbo might decide she is a girl.” Tears stung at the corners of her eyes and she reached out and touched her husband’s arm. He looked at her, and the smile he gave her reminded Bella of every reason why she said yes to marrying him.

“And if she does, then she’ll break all the hearts in Hobbiton. And then go tromp off to Rivendell besides. I can’t say I understand this, my darling wife. I’m very much a Baggins. But I love you, dear, how could I not love our child?”

She scooched over in bed, tugged Bungo to sit next to her, and laid her head on his shoulder as they looked at their little one. “My husband, you astonish me every day.”

*

“Well? What is it? Boy or girl?”

Bilbo was nearing a month, and Bella and Bungo finally allowed their close relatives into the Smial for the first visit and naming ceremony. The large dining room had been opened up so Took and Baggins alike could crowd in around Bella and the new addition to the family. Rumours had spread of the new one’s ‘curious circumstance’, and so even distant relations had come to pay their respects to the newest Baggins child.

The problem was, no one knew exactly what gifts to bring. Did they bring dresses and hair pins and ribbons for the newest girl, or did they bring smart little waistcoats and toy soldiers for the handsome boy? Bungo and Bella had been even more secretive and quiet than most hobbits were on the situation; the only thing they said was bring what one thought best.

Most hobbits settled on flowers for the garden. The Baggins by and large brought the waistcoats. Her father had a cradle commissioned and her sisters made a lovely blanket and quilt set to go with it, with embroidered flowers and fine needlework. It was all quite lovely really. At least, until that question had been raised.

Bella looked up at her gathered family and Bilbo fussed gently in her arms. She adjusted her child until they could suckle at her breast and focused on their tiny features.

“Bungo and I are going to let Bilbo decide that.” She said. There was an instant reaction as gasps and clattering tea cups resounded through the Smial. Bella was well used to her family’s tendency for dramatics, so she paid it no mind.

“Bungo, this is ridiculous. Surely you know whether you have a son or not.” Mungo Baggins said, his aged face pinched in consternation. Bella wasn’t sure if she was fond of her father-in-law in that moment. She lifted her gaze to catch Bungo’s eye, and smiled when she saw the look of stiff courage. Her Bilbo was special indeed, though not for the reasons anyone would ever guess. A caul birth hadn’t been reported in the Shire in a hundred years or more.

It hadn’t been seen in several generations, long enough to leave the minds of most hobbits, and now there was no one old enough around to remember. Rumour had it that Bullroarer was a caul birth and after The Battle of Greenfields, bore several children himself. Considering his win at Greenfields the hobbit could have done anything and the Shire would have welcomed him wholeheartedly. Unfortunately or fortunately, there were no battles for her dear one to fight, to prove their worth beyond having more hobbits.

“Dad, I stick by our decision. When Bilbo is old enough, they will tell us. Until then, Bilbo is neither a boy nor a girl. They are a Baggins, and that should be enough.” Bungo said.

“All well and good,” Gerontius, the Old Took said around his pipe. “No need to worry about such fluff now. Wait until the little one is breaking hearts or chasing after a skirt to figure out which way they’ll tup.”

“Da, please. Is that really necessary?” Bella asked as the Baggins family as a whole looked faintly sick with such a crude saying.

“I am just being an honest hobbit, my darling girl. Cutting through the nonsense as it were. Now, let me hold my grandchild.”

Bella handed Bilbo over to Gerontius and the little child stretched and yawned, their tiny fists waving as they settled against Gerontius’ chest.

The rest of the family seemed content. Well, no that wasn’t quite right. The rest of the Tooks were content and milled around, piling their plates with food, and drinking cups of tea or glasses wine. The Baggins were less than pleased, though they were stiffly quiet.

“What about the announcements, though? And what are people going to say? You mark my words there will be talk about this. You saddled your child with rumours before they’re even old enough to defend against them?” Another contingent heard from, Longo Baggins. Bungo’s younger brother, and perhaps even more stuffy and officious than any hobbit had a right to be.

“Let them talk,” Bungo said sharply, and there was a steely bristle to his voice. “But here in this house, Bilbo will be whomsoever they choose to be. Bella and I have already discussed this, your input is not required.”

Several hobbits gasped. That was, perhaps, the rudest thing uttered by a Baggins in quite some time. The air in the room was thick with tension as the two brothers stared. Bungo was had always been a soft hobbit, the very picture of kindness and loyalty. Most of Hobbiton had been in quite a stir when he set about building Bag End for Bella as a wedding gift. There had been talk that Belldonna Took had spelled the Baggins boy and dragged him dancing down a path of disgrace and ruin, as she ran hither and yon chasing elves and following wizards to only the Valar knew where.

Bella knew of those rumours, and cared not a whit. Bungo was a strong and kind and loyal hobbit, and yes he was quiet and quite respectable, but he was hers. And to see him now, that determination and resolve, it was quite a sight to behold. She reached out and took his hand gently in her own and twined their fingers together. Only then did she spare a glance at her brother in law. “Peace Longo, the rest of the Shire can take care of its own. So long as Bilbo has the support and love of their family, they shall want for nothing. Isn’t that right?”

The Tooks, desperate for a change of topic, cheered and poured wine and dragged their Baggins neighbours and relations into other rooms to ply them alcohol until the ‘but think of the child’ was drowned out by singing and celebration.

Gerontius still held Bilbo and cooed at the little child. “You are causing quite the stir my dear grandchild. But you have the best of both worlds. You have a mother who would fight against the very world for you, and a father who would fight all of Hobbiton. I’m not sure who is braver, it is a rather close thing is it not?”

*

Her Bilbo was a quiet child. Even in the first year, they never cried very much, and spent much of the time watching. Always watching, and laughing and taking everything in. It was difficult to find clothing for the little one, and she worried at night that she was forcing a choice onto her child.

In those first years she picked up sewing from her younger sisters, and the three of them fashioned clothing for the little one, shirts and shorts and overalls. Bella refused to be limited by colour and chose greens and purples, browns and blues, pink and deep grey.

Three came the year ‘No’. Bilbo’s favourite word, and they said it at every opportunity. Much to her father’s enjoyment. It was also the year that she let Bilbo start dressing themselves. It was a year of running around and chasing after a tiny hobbit intent on finding elves in the garden.

Her reputation suffered even more in those years. She bit the heads off more than one hobbit who tried to gender her Bilbo. She became more protective of her little one, and thank the Valar they had enough cousins, because other children were horrible. She dragged more than one of the Rumble boys or a Farfoot girl by their ear, back home. It lead to a rather solitary childhood in those days for Bilbo, and it made her heart ache that she couldn’t make things better.

The summer before Bilbo turned four there was a big commotion. Another Took baby was to be borne and soon by Bella’s sister. It was the talk of most of Hobbiton and Bella was working on a blanket for the little one’s arrival when she caught a bundle of clothes as it walked down the hallway.

Bilbo slipped out of it and deposited the clothing on the floor and went back to their room and brought another bundle down. “Whatever are you doing, little dove?”

“The new baby is going to need clothes, I thought I’d give them some of mine since I don’t wear them now.”

Bella set aside her sewing and went over to the pile of clothes. “Some of these are going to be too big for the baby when it arrives. But I’m sure there are some things of your baby clothes that will fit.”

Bilbo nodded. “That’s all right mum, he’ll grow into them.”

“And you’re sure you’re getting a boy cousin then?”

“Well yes, that’s the way it goes right? There’s Fortinbras, and Adalgrim, and then Flambard, and Sigimond, and then me. So auntie Donnamira should have a boy too.”

“So you’re a boy because you have boy cousins?” Bella asked, she had no idea what the right question was here, or if she was even supposed to ask something. Briefly she thought of asking Gandalf about this sort of thing and how the elves handled such stuff. She tucked that away for the next time he visited. For now the look Bilbo gave her was priceless.

“No mum, I’m a boy because I’m a boy. Didn’t you know that?”

“No my little dove. I’ve been waiting for when you were ready to tell me.”

“Oh. Okay. I’m a boy then, mama. And I think auntie Donnamira is going to have a boy too, and I want to give him my baby clothes.”

Bella scooped Bilbo into her arms and hugged them tight. “Oh my little dove. You have such a big heart. I’m sure auntie Donnamira would love your gift. I want you to know Bilbo, that you can change your mind at any time. If you grow up and you think you are a girl and not a boy, I would love you just the same.”

Bilbo giggled and squirmed in her arms. “You’re being silly, mum. I’m a boy, and I’ll always be a boy.”

*

Bilbo may have made his decision, but that didn’t mean an end to hobbits and their small prejudices. Bilbo was barely six, old enough to join the other faunts as they played, and he desperately wanted to join and look for elves in the hedgerows.

Bella was in the garden reading, when she heard a soft whisper on the wind. She looked up to see her Bilbo, covered head to toe in mud.

“Oh dear, we’re going to have to get you washed up, aren’t we dear one? Did you find your elves?” It wasn’t until Bilbo got closer she could tell something was amiss. “Bilbo, what’ wrong? Are you hurt, little dove?”

“No m’not hurt.” Bilbo said toeing at the ground. Bella scooped him up, ignoring the wet mud as it seeped into her dress and took her child into the smial and to the bath.

“What has you sad then? You can tell me anything you know.”

“We were playing a game near Farmer Maggot’s, running through the corn stalks. It was really fun and we found a few big puddles and all of us were jumping in them. At least until some of the older boys showed up. And they started being mean and throwing mud balls at Lobelia and I. That wasn’t very nice mum. So I threw mud back at them and told them to pick on someone else.” Bilbo stopped to take a breath and lift his arms while Bella stripped the sodden shirt.

“Where’s Lobelia now, is she all right?”

“She’s fine. The boys kept throwing mud and it wasn’t fun anymore so we left and went to Lobelia’s, but her mother got angry. She said if I liked Lobelia I shouldn’t push her in the mud. And if that was the way of it, I wasn’t to come over anymore. But mum, I didn’t push her in the mud. I didn’t. And what does liking someone have anything to do with pushing them in the mud? Why are grownups so weird?” Bilbo dragged the step stool over to the tub and climbed over the rim and into the warm sudsy water.

Bella knelt down and started washing the mud from Bilbo’s hair. “Grownups are very weird, and Lobelia’s mother is one of the weirdest hobbits. It’s an old fashioned idea and not a very good one. Where boy hobbits, when they like a girl hobbit, push her into the mud or something equally mean. It’s not right, Bilbo, and that’s not what it means at all. If you like a hobbit you should give them flowers, and be nice and polite and kind, as we’ve always taught you.”

Bilbo made a face. “Lobelia is my friend. I like her, but not enough to give her flowers.”

“I know that sweetheart. I also know that you are too young to figure out half of what grownups mean by their silliness. It has nothing to do with you, I promise. I’ll be having a talk with Mistress Bracegirdle, though. We’ll get this whole thing sorted, no need to lose a friend.”

*

It wasn’t until Bilbo was in his teens that things became different. Bella could read the signs clear enough, and it seemed that while Bilbo had chosen to be a boy, the rest of his body was going to disagree. He stopped hanging out with other hobbits, started wearing tighter waistcoats, and hiding, always hiding.

Bella knew a lot of herblore, had prided herself on it for healing and making salves and teas. But this was something she wasn’t quite sure about and she needed answers, and fast. Especially if her son’s tears were anything to go by.

“Something’s wrong with me mum.” Bilbo sniffed and slouched more into himself. God it hurt watching Bilbo retreat like that.  
  


“What’s wrong, little dove?” She asked and tugged him closer.

“I don’t know. I just feel wrong. Every day it seems to get a bit worse. I can’t explain it more than that. I feel wrong.”

“Little dove, I’m not sure but I think I might have an answer. You know how we’ve been talking about where hobbit babies come from and the differences between a boy hobbit and a girl hobbit?”

“Yes, and I’m different because some ancestor decided to marry a faerie. I’ve heard it all mum. How does that help me?”

“That faerie thing is a load of nonsense, I don’t believe that any more than I believe there hasn’t been a caul born in a hundred years. Hobbits are so backward sometimes, they can’t see beyond their borders. I’m very sorry, Bilbo, but while you feel that you are a boy in your heart and in your head. Your body has decided something entirely different. And right now, that difference, is causing you pain. So it is up to me, to find a way to stop that.”

“What, I’m becoming a girl? I don’t want to be a girl, mum.”

“And you are not one, I promise you. I’m going to write to my friend, Lord Elrond. He is a very wise elf, and I’m sure he’ll have the answers we seek. If necessary, I’ll hire us a set of ponies and we’ll go to Rivendell ourselves to get some answers.”

Bilbo sniffled and the tears started anew. Bella pulled her son to her and held him tight. “Trust me, we’ll figure this one out.”

She wrote to Elrond. Gandalf hadn’t been by in some years and this was something that just couldn’t wait for his intermittent visits.

In the ensuing weeks, Bella did her best by her son, though she felt truly as lost as he some days. The healers and midwives of the Shire did not have any wisdom she did not already possess. Plus, they were even less likely to offer anything beyond the barest of advice that wasn’t utter nonsense.

The day she kicked Annalise Rumble from her smial would go down in infamy. The young midwife had some herb knowledge and a great store of them near the white downs. Bella had hoped to get a new perspective on herbs that helped with might halt puberty, or perhaps help with menstrual business, and that those might ease some of Bilbo’s pains until Lord Elrond wrote back.

“’Tis not right, Mistress Baggins,” Annalise said, sipping a cup of tea. Her hair was fastidiously curled in an array of delicate ringlets, and her dress was very proper.

She was soft in ways that midwives weren’t, though Bella tried to convince herself that was due to inexperience, and that would come in time. “What’s not right, Miss Rumble?” Bella gripped her tea cup and privately wished she hadn’t brought out the best set. It wouldn’t do for her to break one of her favourite cups while she tried to remain polite.

“Well, if you ask me, Bilbo’s a girl. Her body is making that quite known now. You’re going against the Valar and all that’s green if you try to change that. This business of Bilbo being a boy was all well and good when she was fauntling, but now it’s time to put away such silliness.” Annalise slurped at her tea completely oblivious to the sudden chill in the room.

“Bilbo is my son. And what you are saying is hurtful, Miss Rumble. Have a care.” Bella said, precisely. She set her cup and saucer down on the table. “Now, do you have any advice on a type of herb that might help? I know there are some that bring courses on, but not ones that stop them.”

“Why would you want to stop them? Don’t you want grandbabies? Mistress Baggins, this is really not appropriate. Bilbo will get used to being a girl, you and I know well that it’s rather tough in the beginning, what with all the changes. But she’ll get through it and then settle down with a nice hobbit. You’ll see.”

“That’s enough.”

“Come now, Mistress, this is just simple fact. I say this is good news, now we know the way the Valar wanted Bilbo to be, and there will be no more questions.”

“I said, that is enough. Miss Rumble you have said your piece. Bilbo is my son. There is no room for discussion. If you cannot offer me some help, then I apologize for wasting both our time.” Bella stood, smoothed her smock and took the tea service into the kitchen.

The silly ninny of a midwife either didn’t get the hint or chose to ignore it and followed Bella.

“But Mistress Baggins, this isn’t right. You’re going against nature this way, and you’ll just make the poor lass suffer more.”

“Out.” Bella said between gritted teeth.

“What? Come now, Mistress, you’ll see in time that this is right. I know it’s difficult and that you wanted a boy – my mam wanted a boy too when I was born - “

“You daft twit. Stop talking. Just stop talking.” Bella whirled around and took the Rumble girl by the shoulder and ushered her from the house. “I can see now that this was a mistake. I should have known better.” She handed the girl her coat and shoved the bonnet on her head and pushed her from the door. The silly girl stumbled back and landed with a thump and flourish of skirt onto the snowy walk. “You are no longer welcome here, Miss Rumble, and have a care for your opinions. My husband may be the respectable Mister Baggins, but he married a Took. And should you decide to slander my son in this way to anyone, I will know of it.” Too incensed to speak further, Bella turned on her heel and slammed the door to the smial closed.

News of the altercation quickly spread through the Shire. Bella didn’t particularly care for her reputation. That had been sullied long before she ever thought to marry, when she ran off into the wilderness and discovered elves and so much more. But, the rumours and the talk about town had little to do with her tossing the silly Rumble twit out on her ear, and more to do with her son.

Town gossip was quickly forgotten though in the wake of Bilbo’s continuing development, or so she thought. One chilly morning in autumn Bella was in the pantry gathering supplies for a pie when she heard a shrill cry come from deeper in the smial.

“MUM!”

Pie forgotten, she raced down the hall to Bilbo’s room. “Bilbo? Are you all right? Where are you, are you hurt,” she asked at the doorway. She hesitated opening his door, but through the thick oak she could hear soft sobs. Bungo came up behind her but she gestured for him to stay out and slipped into the room.

Bilbo was on the floor, his head on his knees, hugging himself. The sheets from the bed were in a pile on the floor and she noticed a dark stain smeared into them.

“Oh, Bilbo,” she said and knelt down in front of her son. “We’ve spoken of this, little dove. It’s all right now. We can get you cleaned up, and I’ll make some tea to help with any pain.” She reached out and ran a comforting hand through his short curly hair.

“They’re right aren’t they?”

Bella’s hand stilled. “Who’s right, Bilbo?”

Bilbo sniffed and looked up at her. His eyes were red rimmed and he was terribly pale. “Everyone. The whole Shire is talking about me. They’re right though, I’m just pretending, and here’s the proof, in bright red.”

Bella wanted to hurt them all, to hurt every single hobbit who had ever said a mean or disgusting word against her Bilbo. In that instant she could have taken a frying pan to every last, small-minded head. Instead she gathered her son into her arms. “You’re not pretending. You are my son, and you’ve known that since you were barely old enough to walk.”

“But they said –“

“No buts, no they saids, Bilbo. The only person who can say who you are, is you. No Rumble, or Proudfoot, or Took, or Baggins can tell you who you are on the inside. The only person who can do that is you,” Bella said and rubbed his back. “You’re growing up my boy. And your body is not quite in agreement to how that’s supposed to take place.

“I had hoped we’d hear from Elrond before this. But that’s why I wanted you to be prepared. This isn’t the ideal situation, but we’ll make the best of it. And hopefully soon the elves will write back with an answer.”

Bilbo managed a weak nod and leaned against her heavily. Bella hugged him back fiercely and helped him to his feet. “Let’s go my boy, let’s get you washed up and into something comfortable. I’ll make your favourite tonight for supper, yeah?”

Bilbo stood up and hugged himself. “You’re not angry?”

“Angry? At whom? At the small minded people who’ve made it their business to talk about something they have no right to? You’re damn right I’m angry about that. Bad enough they couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves when I decided to leave the Shire. Or when I came back and married your father. Worse still that they decided to try to get their hooks into my boy.” Bella said and scooped the bed sheets up in one arm.

“OH mum, please, I’ll wash those,” Bilbo said, making a face as he tried to tug them from Bella’s arms.

“I’m not angry with you, Bilbo. Why would I ever be angry with you? And as for washing these, it’s just a bit of blood, my boy.”

“But… where it came from…”

“It’s all perfectly normal my dear. I’ve been bleeding since I was your age, and I bled even more when you were born.” She guided Bilbo to the bathroom and set the sheets aside. “I wish I could take this pain from you. I wish this didn’t cause you the pain it does.” She kissed the top of his head and pulled him into a hug.

“Would you have rathered I was a girl?” Bilbo asked against her neck. She could feel the tension across his shoulders and hear the hesitance in his voice.

“My wish when you were born was that you were a healthy child. That still holds true today. I wanted _you_ Bilbo. You are my child, and my son. And I will fight any hobbit that tries to tell us otherwise.”

*

“Bilbo? We received a letter from Lord Elrond.”

Bilbo looked up from his book and scooted over to let Bella sit down. “There you read that, and then read the directions for the tea.”

Bilbo took the letter in hand and eyed the delicate script.

“Greetings, Mistress Baggins, It has been long since I’ve heard from you and hope that you are well. I offer my sincere congratulations on the birth of your child, and I hope that what information I have found will be of some benefit to you.

“Elves have been using this treatment since The First Age. The flower has many properties, but when the leaves and stems are crushed to a fine powder and boiled they achieve the kind of transition you are looking for. The tea must be consumed three times a day, every day, in the beginning.” Bilbo recite. He paused, looking up from the letter. “That’s a lot of tea mum.”

“I have no reason to doubt him, Bilbo. We’ll follow his directions and see where it goes from there. He’s a very kind elf, and I would say that they’re one of the few races that would have experience with something of this sort, or at least one of the few willing to share their expertise.”

Bilbo looked back to the letter while Bella took the flowers and set them in the mortar and pulverized the dried flowers into a fine purple powder.

“It says here the tea isn’t permanent. That should I ever change my mind, or if I choose to have a child, I should just stop drinking the tea. After three months I should be fertile enough to have a child. There are permanent solutions, but they’re drastic, and require a level of magic that would require a trip to Lothlorien to see the Lady, and shouldn’t be done before I reach maturity.”

Bilbo set the letter aside and huffed a sigh. “Every time I think someone is going to have an answer all I get are more questions.”

“I know, Bilbo. But there will always be questions. Perhaps you and I should make the trip to Rivendell anyway. It will give you a chance to meet the elves, perhaps their healers and Elrond himself would be able to help you understand what’s going on better.”   
  


“What about da? We can’t leave him here by himself. Left to his own he and Hobson will have another five rooms added to this place and plans for another wine cellar.”

Bungo walked into the kitchen from the living room. “And what is wrong with another wine cellar? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a few months while you two visit with your elf friends. Maybe I should go with you to keep the two of you out of trouble.”

Bella bit her lip. “Eavesdropping again, husband? My dear, we’d have to ride ponies. There’s no way we could walk there in a timely manner.”

“I might have been a bit curious when I heard the words Rivendell and wine cellar.” Bungo hedged. He cleared his throat and adjusted his weskit over his growing paunch and shook his head. “Ponies? Oh no, no, absolutely not. I love you my darling wife, but you and our son are the adventurers in this family. Not me. Bilbo has given me an excellent idea, and I think that’s exactly what I’ll do.” He grinned. “See my dear it boy, it all works out. You and your mum get to see your elves, and I get a new wine cellar.” 


	3. Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Longbeard's exile from Erebor is a particularly harsh one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! I don't think there's anything particularly triggery aside from what has already been warned? Discussions of homeless and starvation. This is not a happy chapter, it's a rather low point for all involved. All the love to Strivingartist once again for reeling in my run-ons and comma abuse. :D Any errors you see after the fact is all mine.

#  Exile

The elves were of no help. Not during the desperate escape from the dragon. Not in the days that followed. Not in the weeks that continued. Each day brought with it more disappointment, more hunger, and more degradation.

The Men were as bad off or worse, their homes burnt to a cinder, and so much death. The smell of burnt wood, of flesh, stayed in his nostrils, clogged his pores. Every night when they stopped he would find a stream or a lake or some bit of water to rid him of the stink of dragon’s fire, but it was never enough. He’d go to sleep with the smell still clinging to his clothes, to him. He couldn’t look at a fire or hear the strike of tinder without flinching.

His father and grandfather lead them across the Brown Lands, across the wastes in search of some shelter. Some of their number broke off in small bands to make for Ered Mithrin, or the Iron Hills. But most stayed together, clinging to the tenuous ties of loyalty to the king and his kin.

Thorin, in the first days, would stay close to Thrain in case he was needed. But he was quickly put in charge of keeping his mother and sister safe. A task he took gratefully as it kept them close and he didn’t have to constantly peer over his shoulder to make sure they were keeping up.

Frerin had stopped laughing. No one laughed in those days, though. But to see the horror etched in his brother’s face, to understand that he could feel its echo in the ache of his own brow and jaw. Frerin whispered to him at night after the rest of the camp had fallen into uneasy rest. Would tell him of his dreams. Whisper of the fire that had haunted him for weeks. The portents he had not realized were such until it had been too late. Thorin held his brother as Frerin shook with grief and guilt only to fall into a disturbed slumber and wake in the morning to start again.

More often than not Thorin would wake in the middle of the night. Wakened by dreams of fire and the smell of ash. Feeling the comforting warmth of his little sister burrowed against him. Her cheeks were dirty and held the stains of many tears. Her once pretty dress had become nothing more than rags, and they were fast running out of coin.

If his mother glittered before, she shone now. Even through the muck and the soot she stood tall and proud and never once bowed her head. She went from family to family and offered a kind word, or a hand to hold. She cared for little ones of tinkers and miners. She bandaged wounds and sang songs when they stopped at night.

She was a clear voice of hope in a land so barren and wasted it held nought else but sorrow. She kept the songs alive. She cursed and yelled and fought with the best of them. But her touch was soft and tender. Her voice pushed them forward; her touches soothed.

But she kept nothing for herself, and it showed. She was thinning, day by day, hour by hour he watched her wasting in front of him. Giving the last piece of bread to their sister, or to a stranger’s child. Thrain would rail against her stubbornness, and fight with her each step to take a bit of food. But she would not, not until she was sure their people were fed.

Thorin followed her cue, offering his rations to those who in need. He had hoped his mother would start eating again, but she continued to help, and so did he, hoping to relieve some of the burden she had placed upon herself.

They reached the first of many towns of Men. It was there that Thorin was able to earn something for his people and his family. He found a forge in the first city, run by a man, and he was able to purchase some time there with the help of a bit of coin. He made weapons, swords, axes, small daggers. All from the inferior iron the men used. He was still only an apprentice as far as his training was concerned, but to the men of the town he was a master and they paid a goodly price.

But there were many dwarrow with skill enough, and the influx of the needy drove prices and demand in cross directions. They could never stay in a village or town for very long. They had to move on, to find better places, more accepting places.

Thorin heard the rumours in the second town they came across. People spoke around merchants. They unleashed all the vitriol they kept bottled around polite company. They spoke openly around their perceived inferiors.

It came as a blow to hear of how the sacking of his home had travelled. To hear that his grandfather was being blamed for it. That Thror’s greed was what caused the dragon to attack. That his gold-lust was the root of it all, and the dwarrow of Erebor were paying the just price of that greed. It sickened him. Let Thorin feeling clammy and cold even in the heat of the forge.

The men who spoke so openly, so disdainfully of his people and their plight, bickered over the price of his wares. Pinched every penny they sent his way as if he were stealing from their pockets for their chosen merchandise. Some would make up errors in the design or function. They would demand refunds and try to keep the item anyway. Thorin learned not to trust pretty phrases and kindness. It hid deceit and prejudice.

He learned that the only people to be trusted were his kin. His people. He learned that for every ounce of blood and sweat he poured into his work, he gained nothing from the men, but he gained tenfold from the dwarrow.

Thorin learned though. By Mahal he learned. He picked up every skill he could and threw himself into his craft. Every bit he sold, every piece he made kept his family and people fed. He counted his blessing every night he didn’t hear Dis’ stomach rumble in sleep.

Years passed that way as his people travelled from city to town to village across the east and through the wilderness. But it was never enough. Thorin watched as the years rolled by and his people starved and turned to begging and thievery. These were Durin’s Folk. They had honour damn it. They had lives and loves, they were not beggars, and they were not thieves. They were a proud people.  But they were looked at with suspicion and wariness. They were used for their goods and crafts, then scapegoated and kicked from one city to another.

In the bigger cities, Thorin found buyers for some of his gems. He never got a decent price, and it hurt to part with the pieces that were all the remained of his naming gifts. A rose cut garnet ringed with briolette diamonds fetched enough food for a month and iron enough for swords to sell.

His shield cut citrine brooch fetched medicine for Dis when she took ill the year she turned sixteen. She rallied, and it was worth the loss of a gem he had memories of; so long as he could keep Dis and his mother fed and out of the gutter, he would do anything.

His father and grandfather were rarely around. They had taken to seeking aid with the other dwarven kingdoms. Letters would reach them and sometimes a bit of coin, but never enough to keep them fed. Not when he and his mother were looking after the remnants of the refugees from Erebor. There were over a thousand of them in total and each of them did what they could to keep food and shelter. Not a single family was left out. They suffered and benefited as one.

The year of his fortieth naming day came and went without a mention. That was the year he took to shaving his beard. His coming of age was a several decades off yet, and it had been nearly twenty years since the Dragon had stolen his childhood.

He did not know what he felt, other than hunger and bone weariness born of too many years of struggle. His beard would have made his grandfather and father proud, it was full and a deep rich black that glinted blue in the light. But he would not keep such a sign of pride, not when his people continued to suffer. Not when he didn’t know where their next meal would come from.

They were in camp, off the great East Road and away from most of the cities of men. They had enough for now, but they would need to find a city to sell their wares soon. Winter would be upon them and they needed stores and supplies to survive till spring.

A chipped basin rested on a table to his right, the water was warm. He dipped his hands in and lathered a cake of lye soap between his hands then applied it to his beard. His hands shook as he took the blade up and pressed it against the vulnerable skin at his neck.

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing?”

He jerked and grabbed at his neck where he cut. “Mother, this is none of your concern.”

“It is most certainly my concern. My eldest is about to cut off their birthright, their source of pride. I will not allow it.” Haldis stood in the shadow the lanterns cast across the room. Her hair shone white and her blue eyes were icy as she crossed the room and snatched the razor from him.

“I cannot keep it mother. It is not my right, not when our people suffer so. How can I be proud of anything that has happened?” His voice broke and he trembled where he stood. As aged as he felt, he longed for her comfort. For her words to ease his burden.

“My child,” She whispered. “You have kept us alive. You have clawed your way through muck and ruin and were brought low by a dragon and it did not break you. You may not feel pride, but I could not be more proud of the child I bore.” She touched his hair and kissed his brow. “Is this what you truly want?”

“Until our people can walk through the gates of Erebor with their heads high, I will not wear a beard mother.”

“Then let me.”

Thorin let his hands fall to his sides and stood still as she stropped the blade to a thin edge. He felt no more than a whisper of the blade against his skin, and soon the water next to them was full of lather and dark whiskers. The light blurred and his eyes burned and his throat hurt.

He didn’t realize he was crying until his mother wiped at the tears that fell. He grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand as he collected himself. He felt her tremor as her hand dropped from his face, followed by a harsh gasp.

“Thorin, where’s your choosing stone?” His mother took his wrist and then the other. “Where is it Thorin?”

“Amad, it’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t, Thorin, Where did you put it?” She pulled at his collar. “Thorin, please. Where is it,” she whispered as panic crept into her voice.

“I sold it, mother. I had to. It fed you and Dis and several others for two months.”

“You haven’t worn it in-“ She stepped back and pressed her hands to her mouth. “How long, how long haven’t you worn it?”

“Why does it matter, amad? I sold it two years ago.”

“Two-THORIN! Oh do you realise what you’ve done?”

Thorin’s legs trembled and he stared at his mother, at the anger and the fear in her. It was a blistering thing, he had never seen her like this before, her voice was tight and edged with panic. He reached for her. “Mother, I don’t understand. It was yet another gem, another stone. It kept us fed. What was one more loss compared to all the others?”

Haldis let out a whimper from behind her hand. “My child. Oh Mahal, they never told you. Your father never – He told me to leave it to him. That he would explain everything.” She closed her eyes and Thorin reached for her, attempted to offer some kind of comfort, but she pulled away from him.

“Amad? I don’t understand. It was a pretty gem nothing more.”

“It was one of the choosing stones, Thorin. You’ve worn it since you were hours old.”

Thorin shook his head to clear the confusion, to refute what his mother was saying, to make sense of it. Something. “I know what the choosing stones are, amad. I’ve read their history, but I promise you, it was doing nothing for me.”

“How do you know? You’ve been wearing it since birth. No dwarrow was ever meant to wear it that long. You shouldn’t have been given it until now, when you could make this choice. Your _grandfather_ wanted a male heir to ensure the line. He threw away millennia of tradition with you and Frerin. Forced a choice on you.” Haldis shook but she continued to step away from his reach, using the distance as punishment, though he wasn’t sure if she was punishing him or herself.

“I know, amad. I have no need of a choosing stone, nor have I ever. Neither does Frerin. Once we learned of their purpose we removed them. I’ve only ever worn it out of habit. Frerin is the same.” Thorin closed the distance between them and pulled his mother close. “Please, amad. Do not blame yourself for this. I had to sell it, it kept us alive. But that’s all it was good for.”

She looked into Thorin’s eyes, her own a perfect match for his even as they brimmed with tears. “Forty years I’ve held my tongue. Forty years I’ve watched for some sign that I was not complicit in the worst kind of betrayal. Taking your choice from you was wrong. And it is through the sheer luck of Mahal that you and your brother have fared so well.”

Thorin pressed his forehead to hers and he closed his eyes against the tears that threatened. His mother sounded so broken, so vulnerable. Losing her home to a dragon, years on the road as beggars had not done this, but a missing stone had managed to threaten her equilibrium.

“Please, do not blame yourself.”

“And who would you have me blame? Your father for being cowed by his father? Your grandfather for being so gold-sick and desperate to keep even a tenuous grip on his treasure he would destroy a child to do so? You? An innocent who had no idea and no ability to fight back?

“No, Thorin, my ghivashith, the blame most certainly rests with me. For I knew it was wrong, and I did not speak up. I held my tongue.”  

“What would you have said,” He asked. “Would you have denied him? Would you have fought, and then lost everything to his madness? To be tried for treason?” Thorin’s body trembled as he held his mother’s face between his hands. He could not open his eyes and kept his forehead pressed against hers.

“I have seen him. I have seen the sickness that lies inside him and I fear he would have killed you. Executed you for treason.” Thorin’s voice cracked. “So you held your tongue, and by doing so you lived to raise us. All that I am is because of you.”

He felt his mother’s arms wrap around him tight. She didn’t speak for several minutes, the silence only broken by their harsh breathing. His shoulder became wet with her tears and he gently cupped the back of her head. Again, her vulnerability shocked him; Thorin did not know how to respond to her loss of control.

“You have grown too thin, Thorin. You’ve been sneaking your rations to your sister,” Haldis said. She stepped back from his arms, and her eyes still gleamed with unshed tears. She had collected herself once more, he could see her pulling back the frayed edges of her control.

“Perhaps.” He hedged. Dis was growing, and he would not see her come to illness again, ever.

“No perhaps. You give too much of yourself, inudoy, and you leave nothing for yourself. I am still your mother, you will eat.”

“Amad, I am fine. I promise.”

“I know, though I intend to make sure of that. I will be telling Dwalin.” She said, and left the tent before he could reply.

*

It was another five years before he saw his father again. In that time Thorin had gathered a following, as other dwarves from all around Middle Earth joined his caravan. Rumours had spread that Thror was raising an army to reclaim the ancient kingdom of the Khazad. Over the years, dwarrow had trickled in and joined with the exiles of Erebor. Some were distant family, others were of no relation but had skill and wished to prove themselves. So long as they could earn their keep and brought food and their skill to the forge, Thorin accepted them as part of the group.

Thror arrived ahead of an envoy full of dwarrow from all the seven kingdoms. Thrain was his second in command, and they were decked in all the finery of Kings. Families were reunited in those first days, dwarrow who had not seen each other since the sacking of Erebor. Many songs were sung at night and many a dwarrow rejoiced, for battle was on the horizon, and family was at hand.

Thorin greeted them as they entered the middle of their encampment. Sun shone down on them, blistering in the summer heat, and it glinted on the golden armour of the King’s guard. Thorin and his guard were modestly dressed, steel chain and simple surcoats. Thorin wore no adornment save his family beads. His guard followed suit, though he never ordered it. He bowed low to his grandfather and father. Welcomed them with all the gravitas that had been bred into him. Still he felt as if he displeased them in some fashion.

Thror gave him the barest of acknowledgments and issued orders to the guard to set up proper tents. Thrain stayed quiet, but he would not meet Thorin’s gaze. Only gave him the briefest of looks before following Thror off to see to battle plans.

Thorin let out a soft sigh, barely audible above the din of ponies and dwarrow. He did not know what he expected, nor even what he wanted to come of such a meeting. Perhaps there would be more, later, when the camp was settled and talk of battle plans could be left for the morrow. As it was, Thorin had his own business to attend, and new dwarrow to see settled into camp life.

It was several days before he saw his father again. Thorin was in his tent, attending to correspondence, while Frerin and Dis bickered playfully over a game of chess in the corner. The carved set had been a gift from the two of them for his naming day. It was made of simple limestone and each piece had been carved to represent a dwarrow from history.

The gift had taken them years to carve and was one of his favourite treasures, though he had little chance to sit down and play it as he would like. Thrain walked into the tent without waiting to be announced. Thorin stood and sketched a bow but his father waved a hand. He couldn’t help but watch as his father took in everything with a single dismissive glance.

His tent wasn’t much, a cot with a few furs, a tapestry of the house of Durin hung on the back wall to keep out the cold. His desk was a simple traveller’s desk, light for easy storage and movement, and of course, his chess set.

“Adad!” Dis cried and ran to Thrain and hugged him tight.

“How are you nathith?” Thrain asked and kissed the top of her head.

“Well, I am glad you are with us. Are you here for long?” Dis shared Thorin’s colouring, in hair and eyes, but she had Frerin’s temperament and penchant for easy smiles. Even now in the midst of a refugee camp, in the thick of mind numbing poverty, she smiled as bright as gold.

Thrain picked at the threadbare coat she wore, and Thorin felt shame burn in his gut when his father cast a look his way. Thrain turned his attention to Dis once more, effectively ignoring Thorin where he stood.

“Your grandfather and I are here for a time. We prepare for war, dear child. Which is why I must speak with your brothers in private.”

“But, adad, I’m thiry-one. Thorin was handling battles when he was my age.”

“I am not here to argue. I will see you and your mother soon, I promise. Now shoo.” Thrain kissed the top of her head once more and gently pushed her from the tent when she would not leave of her own accord.

Dwalin came in and set food out on Thorin’s desk. His friend and guard discreetly raised an eyebrow in question. Thorin shook his head minutely and Dwalin resumed his post outside the tent. Frerin sat by the chess set, rook in hand. He didn’t speak, though he cast several glances to Thorin. Again, Thorin shook his head once. He looked back at his father and took in his appearance.

His clothing was still finely crafted, he had many gold rings, earrings, and other adornments on his person. He was every inch a king in all but name. Thorin on the other hand, was wearing one of the only two tunics he owned, both were threadbare and had been patched many times. And he wore no adornment; they had all been sold off years before.

“Do you have no pride, inudoy?” Thrain asked quietly. “You are a prince and yet you comport yourself as if you are but a beggar in the street.”

Thorin flinched and couldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He had his pride, once, but it had proven to be little more than shale, fragile and easily broken under the boots of the Men and elves, and a dragon that had destroyed his home.

“A Prince must be separate from his people, Thorin. You’ve sunk too low. It is bad enough you greet your king in such a state, but you let my wife and daughter wallow in the same condition.”

“Adad, this is not Thorin’s fault.”

“Hold your tongue, Frerin. You are as complicit in this as he. You both are princes of Erebor and you conduct yourselves and this caravan as if you were nothing but traveling merchants and beggars.” Thrain poured himself a goblet of wine and drank deeply. “Your grandfather and I have been working tirelessly to build up support. And we find you tinkering. Lollygagging on the roads.”

Thorin’s fists clenched at his sides, and he could feel the sharp pressure of his nails digging into the flesh of his hands. “We are not tinkering, adad. We have been living hand to mouth since the dragon came. I have done everything in my power simply to try to keep our people alive.”

“I expected better of you, Thorin. It is a good thing you’ve decided to keep your beard short. You don’t deserve one.”

How he was still standing, Thorin didn’t know.

“I- I’m sorry, adad. Forgive me.” His knees felt weak and he couldn’t meet his father or brother’s eye. It was nothing more than he deserved. He had been put in charge, and had failed.

A chair clattered to the ground and Thorin looked up to see Frerin standing, his face red and his fists clenched at his sides.

“How dare you. How dare you say that to him? Thorin has kept us alive. You and grandfather left a child in charge. He did everything he could just to keep us alive.” Frerin grated out.

“And selling off your possessions, the only things we had to remind us of where we came from, that was how you decided to do it? The two of you threw away your heritage for a bit of coin. Why didn’t you write to us, if things were this bad, Thorin?”

Thorin opened his mouth, but no words came out, only a garbled noise.

“Coin? Coin! We have plenty of coin, but last I checked dwarrow can’t eat gold. Despite grandfather’s insistence otherwise. We were starving. We needed food. And then an illness spread throughout the camp.”  

“Dwarrow do not get sick Frerin. You’re mistaken.”

“Tell that to Dis. She nearly died eight years ago. Not that you bothered to care. Without Thorin, she would have died. He has been the only one to keep us going, to remind us of where we came from and what we’re fighting for. You and grandfather fled to the comforts of the Iron Hills. We had nothing, no hope, no food, and no shelter.

“And you left us in charge of it. We have kept everyone pushing forward. I will not have you come in here and tell us we’ve failed. Not have you throw such insults at Thorin, not in my presence.”

“Then leave.” Thrain snarled. “You ungrateful whelp. You have no right to talk to me that way. I will not stand for it. Get out of my sight boy before I do something we both regret.”

“Atkât!” Thorin yelled. His father and brother stood inches apart, fists clenched and raised. Perhaps he should let the mess come to blows, but they would not fight around him.

“Frerin, it’s all right. Please go, I’ll find you later,” he said, and shot his brother a pleading look. Frerin vibrated and his eyes flash, but he listened to Thorin and his fists fell to his sides.

Frerin pushed past their father and stormed from the tent, Thorin could hear him bark something harsh at one of the guards before the noise of the camp swallowed his brother’s voice.

Silence settled thickly between them, broken only by their breathing. Thorin could not break it. His voice was lodged in his throat. He wanted, oh how he wanted to agree with Frerin. But his brother did not see, did not understand. Thorin had been in charge, it had been his duty to see to their people. But above all that he should have taken steps to ensure the continuation of their heritage.

Stories and songs were one thing and they would continue so long as there were dwarrow to remember them. But craft, skill, the work of their people, the heirlooms of the House of Durin, those would endure. Long after the dwarrow had gone on into the Halls of Waiting. They would be all that was left to say that the Dwarrow had been here, had lived and loved. Only, not anymore. They had been sold off in the cities of men. They had been melted down for their gold, the gems had been stripped of their settings and recut by the ham-fisted hands of those who did not understand dwarven craft.

Thorin had consigned the history of his people into the hands of those who cared not a whit for it; he lived with that truth every day. He could not argue with his father, could not bring up a defense for the indefensible. Thrain would not have sold off their meagre possessions, he would have found another way.

He was not his father. Thorin set his goblet down so his father wouldn’t see the tremor in his hand.  

“I will fix the mess you made. You will comport yourself as the prince you’ve been raised to be. From this moment on you will act like it.” Thrain said at length. He set the goblet down on the desk, took in the scratched and beaten surface with a sneer. “Starting with this tent. This is a pauper’s home, not the heir of realm’s.”

Thrain walked around and gripped Thorin’s shoulders. Thorin did not flinch, though every part of him wished to under his father’s direct stare. “You are my son, Thorin. I love you. But we are princes and heirs of a grand kingdom. You have to be above it all. You can’t let it touch you. Show them you are still their prince, and are the rightful heir. Erebor may be lost, but we shall endure.”

“Yes, adad.”

“There’s a good lad. Now, I will send for a tailor and have you outfitted properly before you meet with the king. We have a war to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Strivingartist : And then Frerin came back and punched Thrain. And hugged Thorin.
> 
> Translations:   
> nathitih - little girl or girl who is young  
> inudoy - my son  
> amad - mother  
> adad - father


	4. The Great East Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and his mum travel to Rivendell, and so begins Bilbo's first adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round of thank yous and cookies goes to StrivingArtist for wrangling my prose into place.

** The Great East Road **

They spent the rest of the winter planning, making sure they had enough supplies, and working out the correct route to take. Inquiries were made with Rivendell and Elrond and once the snows faded and the East Road was cleared enough for travel, Bella and Bilbo would make their way to Bree in the company of three Rangers of the North. There, they would meet up with two elven escorts and would be taken through the rest of the journey to Imladris.

On the eve of their departure, Bilbo hardly slept; he tossed and turned alternately excited to be on his first trip out of the Shire, and terrified about what was to come. He only managed to close his eyes briefly as the sun crested the trees outside his window and then his mother knocked on his door. Breakfast was a quick affair, as far as hobbits are concerned and before he finished his first cup of tea there was a knock at the door announcing the arrival of the Rangers.

Bryne, Jora, and Corwen were waiting outside with their horses and three ponies. Soon enough the extra pony was packed with their belongings and the two hobbits were hugging Bungo tightly between them.

“Oh, enough you two. We will see each other soon. And before you know you’ll be back and enjoying a new sunroom.”

“Keep adding plans to the smial, dear husband and it will take over all of the Shire.” Bella said and pressed to kiss to his cheek. “Be good, and have fun. I will write, and we will see you before the snows come again.”

“I love you wife, take care of each other.” Bungo kissed her then pulled Bilbo back into a hug. “You listen to your mother. She has a head for these things, and she’ll keep you safe. And if you can perhaps find a way of secreting a bottle of elven wine with you on your return …”

“Da!”

After a few more goodbyes they were helped onto the ponies and set off from Hobbiton and onto the Great East Road. The sun was shining and the air was crisp with spring and the snows were all but gone, except for in small shadowy areas where sunlight and warmth had not reached quite yet.

Unfortunately, very quickly, Bilbo discovered that horse hair made him sneeze, and sneeze, and sneeze some more. His mother remembered the handkerchiefs and handed him one.

“Don’t worry, young faunt, you’ll get used to it in no time at all,” Corwen said with a jovial grin.

“And by tonight, you’ll be too saddle sore to remember to sneeze.” Jora volunteered, merrily.

“Pay them no mind, young master hobbit, they mean well but are rather lacking in manners. And brains.” Bryne said as she elbowed Jora and took up to ride next to Bilbo.

Bilbo looked at each of them in turn. He had met rangers before but the three they travelled with now were different. He eyed their cloaks and armour and the way they carried themselves with awe. They had seen battle, they had seen _elves_. They were different as night and day from each other. Jora had red hair plaited from her brow down the back of her skull in a long rope. She had wide grey eyes, and a jagged scar bisected her left brow and down the side of her face. Bryne had short, tightly curled, brown hair, dark skin, and amber eyes that glittered when she laughed. And Corwen had honey brown hair and eyes as clear as the sky. It was upon closer inspection that he noticed something different about them. “You are all girls?” he asked. “I thought you had to be a boy to be a ranger.”

Corwen laughed. “If we left all the fun to the boys there’d been nothing left. Yes, we are women, Master Baggins, and we have been Rangers for many a year. We heard that the infamous Belladonna Took was once again going on an adventure and we thought it best to keep her company. Sisters in arms.”

“I had not realized that I had become infamous,” Bella said, casting a glance at their companions.

“Oh yes, Mistress Baggins, you are well known to the Rangers, and your adventures with the wizard and the elves are told all the time. You don’t hear much about Hobbits outside of your Shire, so when one goes on an adventure it tends to get noticed. And now, the name Bilbo Baggins will join Belladonna as an adventuring hobbit.” Bryne said, with a round of cheers from the others.

Bilbo flushed and ducked his head. “You’re just putting me on. It’s hardly an adventure.”

Jora scoffed and shook her head. “Hardly an adventure? My dear Master Baggins, you are a young hobbit, in your tweens, yes? And by afternoon today you will have travelled farther than any other hobbit except your mother and a select few of her family. It is no small thing going to Rivendell. To meet with elves. You are an adventurer, and we’ve decided thus.”  

“Not quite my tweens, no. I turn nineteen this September. A faunt doesn’t go into their tweens until about twenty-one.” Bilbo said. He chewed his lip, the Rangers were right though, there were only a few hobbits that ever left the Shire, and none of them had left before they were of age.

“Even younger then, and such a grand adventure.”

The rest of the day was spent in good cheer with songs and stories being told. That night they camped on the other side of the Brandywine Bridge,just inside the Old Forest, and more tales were spun around the campfire.

It was a lovely if rather boring adventure in Bilbo’s opinion. They woke early each morning, took breakfast and broke camp with the sun. They would travel at a leisurely pace and break for lunch and then continue on until evening, when they would set up once again, and eat, and try to find a comfortable spot on the ground among the rocks and twigs. It was most definitely not his bed, and as the days wore on, he was looking very forward to spending one night in Bree before they met the elves.

It was six days of travel on the road between the Shire and Bree before they spotted the large wooden fence that surrounded the small village. It was a bustling city as far as Bilbo was concerned and he said as much as they stabled the ponies for the night.

Bryne shook her head. “Master Baggins, if Bree is a bustling city, you will be awed by Rivendell. And my home, well, the White city of Gondor would have you speechless indeed. Come, our Inn awaits and our elven companions should meet us soon.”

The Prancing Pony was slightly bigger than the Green Dragon, and Bilbo was still quite small for a hobbit. He stuck close to his mother and he watched as she handled everything from securing the rooms to ordering the food. It was as if being among the bigger folk didn’t bother her in the least. Bilbo couldn’t stop looking at everything and he had to duck and dodge out of the way of the other patrons before he was kicked or his feet were trod upon. Corwen, Jora, and Bryne kept near them and once a table was procured they left one by one to stow gear up in the room.

He sat at the table with a steaming cup of his tea, grimacing with each bitter sip. He hoped the elves had some way to make the tea taste a bit more palatable. Perhaps he’d get used to it in time.

Supper was a simple fare of hard cheese, thick slices of fresh bread and some cold cuts of meat. Not a vegetable to had, unless one counted the pickle.

Bilbo wished for his mother’s soup, or her stew. What he wouldn’t give for a slice of fresh apple pie. Oh that was just silly nonsense, missing pie.

He finished his tea in a quick gulp and set about filling his belly. They would turn in soon and begin the next step in their journey, though he wasn’t sure when the elves were going to meet them, whether it be tonight or if they’d wait until tomorrow.

His question was quickly answered with a commotion at the front of the Inn. Two imposing figures stepped through the door. They wore traveller’s clothes in shifting greens and browns, and both carried large and gleaming swords at their waist. Both of them were taller than any man in the room, with the willowy, blond appearance that he had read about in his stories. But that is where the similarities ended. These were not the glittering elves of a story book, these were warriors, and they looked deadly.

“Elves.” He whispered, and pinked to the ears when they looked their way. Oh no they had heard him. How had they heard him?

“By all that is green!” Bella leaped from the chair and pushed her way through the silent crowd of men to the elves. The instant his mother was in front of them, something changed. As one they smiled and the tension disappeared. One of them knelt and took his mother in a hug. He couldn’t heard what was being said between them, but the three of them laughed as she ushered the two elves to their table.

“Sit, sit, I had no idea Elrond would be sending you two,” Bella said, pushing the two elves into their chairs.

“He had no choice. When we heard that Miss Belladonna Took was coming to Imladris, we made the decision for him. I was not about to pass up the chance, especially when we heard you were bringing your son.”

“Oh! Yes, well.” Was his mother blushing? Nothing made his mother blush, except when his father said something particularly romantic. And here she was, flushing over elves, odd.

“Oh where are my manners! This is my son, Bilbo, and our companions, Jora, Corwen and Bryne, Rangers of the North. And these are two friends I had never thought to see again, Glorfindel, and Gildor.”

Both elves inclined their heads, and soon more wine and food was ordered for the table. Bilbo felt filled practically to bursting with questions. Who were these elves, and how did they know his mother so well? The looks of undisguised awe on the faces of the rangers said they were probably very fierce warriors, and yet they both had easy smiles and laughed and were very relaxed in the company of men and hobbits.

“How do you know my mother?” He blurted out in the middle of a bit of silent eating.

Glorfindel quirked an eyebrow in question and he looked over to Bella. “You’ve never told your son of your adventure?”

“Oh it was nothing, just silliness. I told him I visited Rivendell and met with the elves, but not all the rest of it. Really, that time is behind me.” Bella said and sipped her wine. The look she gave Glorfindel was the same look she used on her brothers when they would start recalling embarrassing tales when they would come by for tea.

Glorfindel, much like Isengrim, was not to be deterred, and he shared a look with Gildor. The two elves grinned and in less time than it took him to grab hold of his drink, Bilbo found himself and his seat moved from the other side of the table and in between two elves.

“All right, little hobbit, let us tell you the tale of Brave Belladonna Took.”

“Oh you two, honestly, my brothers are bad enough.” Bella said with a resigned smile.

“And your elven ‘brothers’ are worse, and we have a lot of time to make up for with our ‘nephew’,” Gildor said and refilled Bilbo’s cup with bit of spiced wine.

“Long ago, before you were born, a young hobbit lass by the name of Belladonna Took was being courted by a rather fussy but nice hobbit. A mister Bungo Baggins. And while this hobbit was nice and proper and perfectly respectable, Bella had dreams of bigger things. Dreams of places beyond the Shire and adventures to see all of Arda.

“So one night, in the wee hours, she absconded from her home, and darted through the lanes of the Shire and off on an adventure. Her brother, Isengar being a protective-sort, and of course not to be outdone by his sister, followed her.

“The two of them ran through the old forests and chased after fireflies and raced along the old roads until they reached their destination. Their adventure was rather mild in the beginning.”

“Mild? I had blisters on my feet for weeks because of that kind of travel. I had no idea what I was in store for.”

“You are not telling this tale. We are.” Glorfindel said and turned back to Bilbo. “As I was saying, they had a very lovely time travelling through hills and valleys to the Grey Havens. You mother and uncle were the very picture of happy hobbits off on an adventure.

“They crossed the Hills of Evendim and followed the River Lhûn. They walked into the halls of the dwarf lords in the Blue Mountains -- though that is a story for another day. They continued to follow the river and eventually made it to the sea and Mithlond.

“It was all well and grand and a perfect adventure of a sort until they lost their way exploring a set of caves. Your uncle wanted to bring something back to show where they had been, but they hadn’t taken into account the dangers of being so close to the sea.

“Orcs were scarce in those parts then, but they still had some raiding parties. Gildor, myself and several of our kin were out keeping Mithlond free of their stink, when we spied two half drowned hobbits on a couple of rocks out in the middle of the bay.

“An orc pack had harried them onto an outcropping of rocks and the tide had come in and swept the orcs aside but not before cutting the hobbits off from land. We managed to get to them in time, though your uncle had taken a serious injury in the meantime. Your mother, brave hobbit lass that she is, tried to brain several of us with a frying pan when we tried to help her.”

“Tried? I distinctly remember connecting with few thick elven skulls.”

“That was Erestor, and I don’t think he’s quite forgiven you for that.” Gildor said. He filled Glorfindel’s empty wine glass and filled his own.

“Serves him right, that elf was awfully handsy.”

“We all have our burdens to bear my dear Mistress Baggins.”

“Yes, mine just happens to be being handled like a sack of potatoes by well-meaning but lunk-headed elves.”

“At least she said we were well meaning.”

“True, the last time, it was something I dare not repeat in front of her impressionable son.”

Bilbo couldn’t not repress the laughter even if he tried. Between the elves and his mother, and the playful way they all spoke to one another, it was rather scandalous to his hobbit senses. His father would have been appalled. But Bilbo found he could not tear himself away from the story and before his mother derailed things he piped up. “Oh, I’m old enough! If you won’t tell me that at least continue the story. I wish to know what happens next.”

“Well, next young sir, we hauled your family onto the shoreline.” Gildor continued. “It was approaching dark and the poor hobbits were soaked to the skin. We managed to find a bit of shelter for the night out of the wind, but your uncle continued to worsen. At first we thought to return them to their kin in the Shire.

“But the terrible wound that your uncle received  had been poisoned. This wasn’t discovered until a few days into travel through the Hills of Evendim. Turns out your uncle took a blade in the leg as he tried to get Bella to safety. Once the poison was discovered we didn’t have a moment to lose so we travelled with all haste to Imladris and our Lord Elrond, who is very wise and a wonderful healer.

“The road was not safe though, and several times we were set upon by small bands of orcs and goblins. Nothing we could not handle, but given our charges, we needed to be careful.”  

“Until I reminded them they were being ridiculous and I would be better off knowing how to fight than being stuck behind the line. I clobbered several of those beasts with my frying pan before Glorfindel decided to give me a sword to wield.”

“You know how to use a sword, mum, really?” In all his young hobbit years he’d never heard of such a thing, and to listen to the story and hear how his mother had done all these things. It was fantastic, too far beyond his belief.

“I can, though I haven’t in many, many years. Your uncle was still getting sicker though. It was an awful thing to watch. They tried to help with their herblore and quick thinking on the road, but eventually your uncle even stopped eating.”

“Oh mum. What did you do?”

“I had the fastest horse, young hobbit, so late that night I took your uncle and mother with me and we raced the rest of the way through Arnor and across the Mitheilel and into the secret entrance to Imladris.” Glorfindel said. “It was a very close thing, but your uncle came out of it all right in the end.”

“He did, and when he recovered we went home and I married your father. End of adventure.”

“That’s not all that happened, Bella,” Gildor said across the rim of his wine glass. “There’s much more adventure there than just ‘he recovered and you went home’.”

“Perhaps there is, but my son is half in his cups and about to collapse after being on a horse all day. You can regale our fine companions of the rest of the tale. I do believe Bilbo and I need our rest.”

“Oh, but mum.”

“Don’t you oh ‘but mum’ me, young man. You have been on a pony all day and you can hardly keep your eyes open. We’re going to be travelling those roads in the morning and I’m sure that Glorfindel will tell you all about his adventures then.” She said, shooing him from his seat.

Bilbo stifled a yawn and stumbled along with his mother, looking back at the others once more before going up the stairs. They waved to him, wishing him good dreams and promises of adventure in the morning. As the crested the top stair he heard Jora and Corwen start to sing.

“When will I be old enough to stay awake and have fun with them?”

“After you come of age, and not a moment before my dear boy. You are still growing and you need your rest. We both do.”

He dressed into his night clothes and settled into the large bed. It wasn’t nearly as soft as his bed at home but it was large and feathery and so much better than the hard ground they had been sleeping on the last few days. The bed dipped and his mother joined him and placed a kiss on his head. “Sleep well my little dove.”

“Mmmm, you too mum.”

*

If the first leg of their journey had been pleasant and relaxed, the next leg was anything but. Spring rains settled in and plagued their journey from Bree along the Great East Road. There was no cover from it, no way to escape even as they made camp. The elves seemed not to be affected by it, carrying on easily as if it was a normal part of travel.

Bilbo supposed it was. But that didn’t mean he cared for it at all. All his clothes were wet, at the very least damp, even his bed roll, and it was nigh impossible to make a decent fire. The flames would gutter and spit and hiss in the rain, or the wood would be too wet and wouldn’t catch.

He was thoroughly sick of travelling and would have liked nothing more than to go home and be safe in his bed. If only they were already at Rivendell, that would be lovely too. Instead they were halfway between Bree and Rivendell, an overhang of rock kept the water from their fire.

Bilbo was wrapped in his bedroll a tin cup on his hands, Gildor’s steaming mint tea warming him and clearing his sinuses. He sniffled pitifully and stared daggers at the fire. Everything offended him right now. The rain, the stink of his clothes, the fire, the smell of the ponies. Even the smell of the dirt. Now there was a rather unhobbity thing to think.

His mother was sitting next to him tending a cook pot and humming. Did nothing get her down?

“Plenty of things my dear boy. But there is naught that I can do about the rain, so I make the best of it,” She said and gave him a fond smile. Bilbo flushed, aware now that he’d been thinking rather loudly.

“Once the rain lets up you’ll feel better.”

“I hope so.” He said, thickly. His throat ached and he swallowed more tea.

“Cheer up, young hobbit. The rains will end by the time you wake.” Gildor said from his perch on a ridge. He was hunkered down and he never took his eyes off land around them. He seemed utterly unaffected by the weather, even his cloak did not seem to weigh him down, though Bilbo was quite sure it was as soaked as all the rest of their gear.

“How do you know?”

“I smell it,” Gildor said simply. “I’ve been around for many an age, Bilbo, and I have seen this weather many times before. It never lasts as long as we think it will.” He said and smiled gently. “The Last Bridge is nearby, we shall see Rivendell within the week.”  

Glorfindel broke through the tree line and held up a brace of pheasant. “I thought your cookpot could use a little flavour, Mistress Baggins, what say you?” The elf grinned and sat down across from them.

“Wonderful, Glory, hand me one and I’ll get it ready for the stew,” Bella said, took one of the pheasants from the elf, and readied it for supper. “We should roast the other that will give us meat enough for a couple of days.”

Bilbo stopped paying attention. He wasn’t terribly hungry; the cold from the rains dampened his appetite as much as his spirits. He drank the tea only because it soothed his throat and continued to watch the steady downpour of rain from their little haven.

At some point he was handed a bowl of stew and he ate mechanically, and he was put to bed much like a child. He wanted to complain, and he later remembered grousing as he lay down on still damp earth. His mother whispered to him in her soft voice and sang lullabies from home. He fell asleep to her singing and the sound of rain.

*

Large hands grabbed him, covered his mouth as he let out a yelp of fear. Bilbo opened his eyes and blinked rapidly but he could not see. The deepest part of the night still held sway and he struggled against the hands that held him and the fear that dug into his mind with sharp claws.

“Be still, you are still safe Bilbo. But we need to get out of here and fast.” Glorfindel said and hoisted him into the air.

Bilbo let out a soft grunt when he was set upon the saddle and his mother wrapped her arms tightly about him. “What’s going on?”

“Orcs. Nim knows the way and he will take you to Rivendell. Hold tight.”

Bilbo grabbed the reins before him as Glorfindel whispered to the horse. His words were hushed and fierce. He ended it with a smack on the horse’s flank and the beast took off as if the hounds of Mordor were running it down.

He felt sick and he realized the hounds of Mordor were truly on their tail. He tried to look behind him to see Glorfindel and Gildor but they were going too fast and he couldn’t see clearly in darkness this dense.

The sounds echoed around them: howls and unnatural screams filled the night air and closed around them. His feet dangled perilously off the horse. Bilbo closed his eyes and tightened his hands on the reins. They were too far away from Rivendell. They’d never make it. They still had the bridge yet and days of travel after that.

This careening flight only put off the inevitable. He whimpered and felt his mother’s arms tighten around him.

“Breathe with me, Bilbo. We’ll get through this. They’re warriors, Bilbo. They’ll make it and meet up with us soon. You’ll see.”

“I’m scared,” He cried into the wind. He wanted to believe her, desperately hoped she was right and this would be over soon. But the screams rent the air and shot through to his pounding heart. He felt so small and it was so very big all around.

Something whistled past his ear and a scream behind him choked and went silent. Another whistle, followed by a dying scream, and hooves thundered ahead of them. Two figures on horseback broke free of the gloom. One held a bow aloft and arrows danced from their fingers, two and three at a time. The other, circled them and plucked the reins from his hand.

“Av-'osto, tolo ar nin,” they said. Bilbo caught a flash of a smile under their helm. He didn’t know what they said but they weren’t trying to kill them. They had the same look as Glorfindel, but their clothing was different, very obviously armour, though beaten and recently battle-scarred.

They rode for several hours and only stopped when the screams faded. Bilbo shook and when they halted and the elf helped them down he was promptly nauseous. He stumbled a few steps across wet grass and lost his supper, his face heated in shame, but he couldn’t stop the dry heaves.

They were going to die and here we was, losing his supper. Some adventurer he turned out to be. His mother took hold of his shoulders and rubbed his back gently.

“Is he all right?”

“He will be. Poor dear has had quite a fright.”

He didn’t hear the others approach. Only looked up to see four elves around them. Glorfindel and Gildor were breathing heavy, their armour and cloaks splattered with ichor that glistened black in the faint moonlight. They were unharmed though, and Bilbo sagged against his mother in relief.

He watched as the four elves greeted each other, comrades-in-arms and friends besides. The two that joined them appeared younger, though Bilbo wasn’t sure how he knew that, only that they carried themselves with less restraint that his two friends.

Glorfindel came up to them after a few minutes. “I’m sorry, Mistress Baggins, we were unable to save the ponies. You and Bilbo will have to ride with us the rest of the way.”

Bilbo was once again lifted into an elf’s arms set upon a horse. Glorfindel sat behind him and he settle his cloak around the two of them. “Sleep Bilbo. We’ll be riding through the rest of the night and most of tomorrow.”

“Won’t that tire you out?”

“Perhaps a little, but we would much rather see you safe in Rivendell than out here for even one more night,” Glorfindel said and flicked the reins.

“You and Gildor have been taking it easy on mum and I haven’t you?” Bilbo asked as he settled deeper into the warmth offered by the cloak.

“Observant little hobbit,” Glorfindel said, and though Bilbo couldn’t see it, he suspected the elf was smiling. “Just like your mother.”

Bilbo looked over to his mother who was safely tucked against Gildor. She looked between the four elves and then back to Glorfindel. “What’s troubling you?”

“Our companions have been chasing a group of Orc through the North Downs and along Fornost. They met up with another pack of them in Amon Sûl. We’ve stopped them for now, but a straggler got free. I’d like not to be on the road when they regroup.”

With that he urged Nim into a run, and they made for the Last Bridge, then onwards to Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin phrase:  
> Av-'osto, tolo ar nin - Do not be afraid, come with me.


	5. Oakenshield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle of Azanulbizar. Frerin POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Compliant Character Death in this chapter kiddies, and of course graphic mentions of gore and violence and murderdeathkills. All the thanks in the world goes to Strivingartist between betaing and handholding, and let's not forget the shoes thrown to keep me in line when I start throwing temper tantrums in chat, because words are hard! She makes all this legible and worthy enough to see the light of day. It says something when I can turn off her editor. That's become my goal lately.

#  ** Oakenshield **

Frerin dreamt. His first memories were of fire and blood, of great swathes of inky black dotted with glittering flecks of light. He dreamt of noise, cacophonous and all consuming. It covered him, stole his breath and left him dizzy with vertigo.

He dreamt of pain. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes dull. He dreamt of agony, a wrenching of his soul from his body. A tearing in a deep place. He dreamt that the dark and the night closed in, and of large halls that echoed with the sound of a hammer striking against an anvil.

Frerin dreamt of his death.

He was three when the dreams started. He woke screaming and clawing for purchase as if he were still falling, still dying. His mother would come to him and hold him and rock him back to sleep in her arms. Before he’d drift his eyes would light to the door of the nursery, and the powerful dwarf that stood guard. He didn’t know how long Thorin would stand there, he just knew in those days that whenever he looked, Thorin was there, still dressed in his night clothes, a wooden sword in his hands as if he could beat back the dark and the dreams with just his will alone.

When he was eight, he woke, screaming and drenched in sweat to see his father above him. Frerin reached for him with trembling hands. They were pushed aside and he was settled back into bed.

“Enough of this, you are getting too old for these things to bother you. Frerin, you are safe in this bed and in this palace. Go back to sleep.” Thrain said, his voice brisk but not unkind. He tucked the covers around Frerin and left.

Frerin trembled and hiccupped on tears. The bed dipped and the covers shifted as Thorin climbed in against him. “I’ll keep you safe, nadad. I’ll always keep you safe.” Thorin whispered while Frerin clung to him and cried into his shoulder.

Thorin never asked him what he dreamed. Not that he could tell anyone. He could never find the words to explain it. It was sound and scent. It was sensation, touch, taste. All he saw was inky dark and glittering flecks.

The years passed, and Frerin continued to dream. He no longer screamed when he woke, but it took long hours before he’d find peace in his sleep once more. The mornings that followed, he would trudge through his duties as if weighed down.

Thorin never said anything, never acted as if he noticed. But at night, Thorin would climb into his bed with some excuse about his room being too cold, or Dwalin had told him ghost stories about the mine again and he couldn’t sleep.

And Frerin would settle against him, and fall asleep to Thorin’s steady heartbeat. He wouldn’t dream those nights, cocooned in Thorin’s arms, safe from the encroaching dark.

Frerin learned quickly that no one liked hearing he dreamt. The fortune tellers and oracles all had opinions on dream reading. None could make heads or tails of his, or they chose not to reveal their thoughts. Telling the King that his second grandson was bound for death was not the best course of action for a long life.

For all that, Frerin was happy. His nightmares added a sharper edge to his day. Reminded him of the fragility of all that he saw and experienced. He laughed louder, loved harder, adored his brother, and when Dis came along, he worshipped her. Thorin adored their mother, Dis adored their father. Frerin adored his siblings with every beat of his heart.

Frerin hated sitting still. He hated being stuck in the large library whilst the Master Scholars droned on about this part of history or that ballad. It might have been interesting at one time, but Frerin always felt balanced on an edge. That he teetered when he stood still and perhaps the only reason Mahal had not struck him down was that he kept moving.

He took to the practice yard and the fighting ring with ease and bloodied himself day and night from the time they put a sword in his hand, then an axe. He could never get the hang of archery. Again, he could not sit still long enough to practice it appropriately.

The only place he differed was in his craft. He cared not for steel or iron, or even his mother’s mithril. He loved gems, and he could sit for hours as he cut and set them. Frerin stopped feeling the flow of time when he sat down and cut diamonds or rubies, brought out their brilliance with a deft flick of a wrist.

He cut a rose out of quartz for his mother as a naming day gift. His father was less impressed and asked why he chose a flower of all things. Frerin couldn’t say, only that the quartz chose the form and he followed the lines. Gemstones sang to him, calmed his dreams.

Frerin dreamt the night before the dragon came. They left him cold and shivering in his bed, wishing for the days when Thorin would come in and sleep next him sword in hand. He didn’t stir nor make a move to go to Thorin, no matter how much his heart wished it.

That night, when the moon had set and the fire in his room went out, Frerin whispered urgent prayers to Mahal and any Valar who cared to listen. He wasn’t ready to die tomorrow. Just a bit longer, please.

Chaos and death came to Erebor the following day and Frerin survived. He dragged his mother from the city, his sister and the guards in tow as they raced across the bridge and down into the valley.

He choked on ash and smoke and watched as dwarrow raced from the city in droves, but he could not find his brother. Time stretched and Frerin trembled. Had the gods spared him only to take his brother instead? No. He would not allow that, Thorin was to live, and if he had to give his life to ensure that, then so be it. Mahal could have him, right now if it meant that Thorin would live.

Thrain and his guards came next from the mountain, but still no Thorin. Frerin broke from the gathering crowd and pushed away from Dwalin and the others, racing back to the mountain. He had to find Thorin had to get him out of there. Thorin couldn’t die. He couldn’t be lost, not here.

He reached the edge of the bridge, and stopped when he caught the flash of Durin blue. Frerin fell to his knees as he heard Thorin, watched, aching as he called out to the elves for help. Thorin with his constant belief in the innate good of those around him. It was a horrible thing to watch it crushed, snuffed out of him like a forgotten forge.

Frerin picked himself up from the ground and stumbled to his brother, grabbed him and pulled him across the bridge.

“Where are they going? Frerin, our people are dying. Why won’t they help us?”

Frerin hugged him tighter and forged ahead. Thorin sounded so small, and young. “Come with me nadad,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Thorin followed, but his eyes never left the cliff where Thranduil had stood. Frerin gritted his teeth and pulled Thorin from the wreckage of Erebor and to their family. Duty won in the end and was the only thing that kept Thorin moving in those days. There was little time for smiles or laughter, and it was many a month before they heard a song that wasn’t a funeral dirge or choked lullaby.

The first time Frerin slept outside and watched the night fill with glittering flecks, his heart stuttered in his chest and he clenched his fists at his sides. So death would come to him out here then. Far away from the comforting weight of the mountain, adrift in the endless expanse of starlight and sky.

Frerin bowed his head and bit his lip until blood filled his mouth and still he bit back a shuddering cry. He didn’t wish to die, oh Mahal, he didn’t want to die. But the stars were cold, and distant and they cared not for a single young dwarf and his desperate wish to cling to life. They glittered on and ignored him as they ignored the rest of the world.

Somehow Thorin heard him, though Frerin was sure he had not uttered a sound. Yet there his brother was, settling against him on the hard scrabble ground and tugging him to his chest. Thorin gruffly whispered Khuzdul into his ear, soft words of comfort and home and promises of a better life soon.

Frerin reached out and held onto Thorin as tightly as he dared and muffled his cries against his Thorin’s shoulder. There was no fault or reproach in dwarrow society against crying. Emotional outbursts were accepted and encouraged. But Frerin was ashamed of his tears. These were not the tears of heartfelt pain or loss. These were tears of fear, of denial of his destiny.

Thorin never pushed for a reason, never took or forced Frerin to reveal his fears, his shame. Thorin gave of himself and held  Frerin tightly to him. And in the deepest dark of the night, when the moon had set, and chill wind swept across the Brown lands, Frerin found peace in Thorin’s steady heartbeat, and rest in the crook of his big brother’s arm as Thorin kept guard against the night.

*

The first year of exile was the hardest for Frerin. Every night he bed down convinced he would not see the morrow. And every morning he woke to further degradation and poverty and the slow steady erosion of his brother’s will and joy.

Their father and grandfather left them in the early months of their exile. Off to the Iron Hills with a small envoy of guards to secure support to oust the dragon. But the weeks stretched and Frerin knew they would not return. They sent little other than correspondence, reminders to mind their duties and keep the hope of the people alive.

They had to keep their people alive first. Each letter they received wore at Thorin, and set a fire alight in Frerin’s chest. He learned that it was possible to hate his father through his letters. The dwarf had always been a distant figure in his life, even more so now. To hear of him speak of duties and honour and keeping hope alive, it was nothing more than gilt. There was no substance, there was certainly no coin sent.

They were starving on the roads between the cities of men and Thorin was shouldering all the blame, all the duty. They all worked, every able bodied dwarrow went into the cities and sold their wares. Everyone sold off a precious heirloom to the Men, to buy food or blankets, bolts of cloth, tents. Anything to keep their families alive for one more day.

Frerin saw it all and shouldered as much as he could and took on even more to keep it from Thorin. His brother smiled less and less each day. Sparing only the softest expressions for him and Dis. And yet they endured, as all dwarrow do. They survived and slowly by degrees built a temporary city. They became nomads, travelling from town and village and it was okay.

The years past and Frerin stopped looking up at the night sky. His dreams had faded, lost in the haze of exhaustion and hunger. Perhaps Mahal had other plans for him. Perhaps he was spared a lonely death amid a field of stars.

Frerin wasn’t sure and he never pushed, never poked at his dreams. He didn’t wish to know, and if that made him a coward, well then so be it.

Each year that passed, each letter they received, each promise his father or their king broke, settled like lead in Frerin’s belly. One letter would promise support, only to have the next bring ill tidings. The next would promise a visit, only to be denied with an excuse in the following correspondence. It was an unending cycle of promise and regret.

Neither of them believed it the day their father and grandfather had shown up, bedecked in finery and all the trappings of kingship. Frerin’s gut twisted and he hid behind the guard so no one could see the sneer that twisted his features.

They dared tromp in here in all their splendor, dared flash and prance in their finery, while the refugees on the road hungered and begged by turns. It made him sick. He wanted to drag them from their ponies and rip their armour from them, melt it down and sell it in the nearest city. He could feed and clothe the entire encampment three times over.

It was a good thing that his king could not read minds. For Frerin would have surely died for his treasonous thoughts. Nearly felt the weight of his father’s anger for his quick defense of Thorin some days later.

But Thorin had spoken and both dwarrow stepped back from the precipice and an uneasy peace settled between them. Though Frerin had lost the last vestiges of respect he held for Thrain and Thror. He gave all of that to his brother. Thorin who had been eroded by indignity and suffering, who had faced the harsh challenge of being a king in poverty and held them together when the world was set to rip them all apart. Though he suffered, Frerin watched as it tempered his brother, the harshness of the world was the ice bucket for the sword. It would drown or shatter others by turns, but in Thorin it set his edge, and hardened his core. Thorin was the true king, Frerin would go to his grave defending him.

*

War came to them two years later. It was a long and bloody siege, led by his grandfather and father. They were well equipped with rhetoric and ballads for their fallen. Summers were spent outside of Khazad-dûm, battling a sea of Orc and goblin. Winters were huddled against the cold, making fervent plans, securing alliances and creating strategies for the coming season.

Frerin and Thorin were both involved in the war, in battle and in the war room. They were no longer children, they were adults and expected to comport themselves as princes of the realm. Frerin wanted to spit.  

War was an expensive business for the dwarrow, and they spent many winters replenishing their stock of sword and axe and arrow. Forges were built by the score and lit day and night during the winter. Iron, and steel were brought in by the cart load and turned into armour and shields and weapons. Spears, lochaber axes, halberds, and pikes all joined the ranks of weapons that were fed from the tent cities of the dwarrow down to Dimrill Dale where the battles were fought.

They beat at the Dimrill gate for nigh on two years. Now, they were close to the end. They had few resources left, and no support from the other races. This was their fight, their war, their home. The dwarrow had one final ploy. One desperate bid to launch all of their forces against the Dimrill Gate, crush their enemies by sheer force.

The night before the battle, Thorin and he sat in his tent. Upgraded to suit their father’s instruction, but certainly not to his brother’s taste. The chessboard Dis and he had made stood between them with the game that had been playing for years on it. It was his turn, but he still had yet to decide his next move.

They both drank wine and hummed old songs, sang favourites, and spoke of anything other than what the morning would bring. Other celebrations were happening all over camp. Their mother and sister had joined them for a time, but they had long gone to bed and the fires dwindles as the night grew late. They should be abed, but Frerin couldn’t sleep, couldn’t shed the restlessness in his bones.

Thorin stayed awake for him, Frerin knew it as easily as he could read. His brother was once again guarding him from his dreams. Several times that night Frerin had almost come clean, confessed the meaning of his dreams and told his brother that it was all right.

Frerin desperately wanted to, wanted to spill every word and have his brother tell him it would be all right. But the words were thick and they stuck in his throat. No amount of wine or ale would release them. He was stuck with his dreams, he alone was to bear their weight in his breast. So he drank and he sang the songs with his brother and he tried not to think of death.

After the songs had finished and the wine was drunk, he stood, wobbled on his feet for a moment and smiled at Thorin. He spared a glance at the chessboard and made his play, then hugged Thorin tightly to his chest.

“Thank you nadad, I will leave you to your sleep. I think I should be able to find mine,” He said and pressed his forehead to Thorin’s.

“You are far too dramatic, nadadith. Go, get some sleep. Tomorrow night we will toast our victory in the halls of our fathers.”

Frerin’s smile wavered ever so slightly but he nodded. “Right you are, may sleep find you, brother, and may Mahal bless your sword.”

“And yours brother.”

Frerin left his brother’s tent and took a deep breath of clean fresh summer air. He looked up at the stars, scattered across the sky and his heart stuttered once, then twice. Tomorrow then.

*

Frerin had been given special honour and was part of Thrain’s vanguard. He was among some of the best warriors of his father’s and grandfather’s army. Thror led his own vanguard with Thorin among his men. Frerin would have preferred being a part of his brother’s vanguard, but that was not to be.

He and the company of dwarrow his father led made their assault in the early dawn hours as the sun was barely a stain of light across the tops of the mountains that enclosed the entrance.

The waters of Mirrormere shone and sparkled as if liquid silver. The dimrill stone of the mountains echoed the sounds of the swords and the curses uttered in Khuzdhul and Black Speech. The orcs were innumerable and beat against the dwarrow vanguard like waves crashing against sand. Soon the ground beneath him was slick with the blood of dwarves and the ichor of orc and goblin. He hacked and parried and dodged blows by creatures double his height and he battered them back and skewered them on his blade.

The battle was fraught but Frerin’s blood sang and he laughed in the midst of the chaos. He was alive and he was fighting and winning against the dark. Nothing would take that from him.

The battle raged on around him, the orcish forces battered back against the gates. Frerin began to hope. His grandfather shone in his armour and he raised his axe and led a charge against the largest orc on the field.

Frerin could not see much from his vantage, nor could he pay attention with the battle still yet to be won. He turned his attention to a small band of orcs and dispatched with surety and no small amount of effort. The battle was already long and the sun had risen high in the sky, his body ached with the effort of it all.

He continued to fight, continued to hack at the orcs, until a scream broke through the battle haze and he looked up to see a head arc through the sky.

Light flashed against the crown on it and his grandfather’s head landed with a sickening thud and rolled down to his father’s feet. Silence settled and stretched for an eternity, to be broken by raucous cheers from the Orcs.

The battle turned, sudden and swift and Frerin lost sight of his father as he fought desperately against the forces of darkness. He and several of the vanguard fell back to the tree line and used the cover to regroup and gather strength for the next run.

He lost sight of his fellow dwarrow though as he ran through the trees. Orcs dogged his stepped, chittering behind him in sadistic glee as they hunted him.

Frerin doubled back and peppered the orcish forces with quick jabs and hasty blows. Many of them missed their mark and he had to run faster as they gained confidence and he tired.

He kept running through the trees and it took him some minutes to break the tree line and get back to the edge of battle. There, across the lake he saw the pale orc. It stood above his brother, sword in hand and ready to strike.

Frerin was too far away, and he couldn’t see his father anywhere. He cried out and raced along the lake’s edge. Running with all the strength he had left. He would not, could not lose Thorin.

Once again he begged the Valar, he cursed them, shouted at them. Demanded they listen to him. Each blow the orc landed against his brother brought another curse to his lips. And something changed. A break in the tide. A shift in the air.

Frerin saw a flash of light against blade and heard the anguished scream from the orc. He yelled in kind and raised his sword high as Thorin stood.

From his vantage point he heard his brother yell the rallying call of the dwarrow. Watched as all his kith and kin fell in behind his brother, like the true king he was and swarmed against the flailing orcish army.

His answering call was cut short with a gasp of pain and Frerin looked down at the orc blade that pierced his centre. It glistered a bright scarlet in the dying light of the day. Frerin coughed and swung wildly behind him. The blade slipped free and he stumbled once, twice and fell back against the ground.

He remembered the cold of his dreams then. How it started in his fingers and then worked through his body until he couldn’t feel anything other than the sluggish thump of his dying heart. Oh Mahal, he didn’t want to go. He had more to do. He needed to help Thorin. His brother needed him.

Oh Mahal curse him, he needed Thorin just as much. He didn’t want to die alone, lost on the other side of a lake, left to be carrion for the straggling orcs or the birds. Night was falling and he knew he had several hours yet before death would take him.

He couldn’t cry out, couldn’t get enough breath in his lungs to offer more than a gasp here and there. The blade must not have pierced anything vital, otherwise he would have been dead long moments ago. No, his death was one by degrees, as his life blood pumped out of him in a steady river.

He heard movement nearby. Frerin opened his eyes, couldn’t remember when he had closed them, they were so heavy though, not much longer then.

Boots crunched fast and desperate against the gravel and Frerin let out a grunt as he felt hands pull him close.

“Frerin, Frerin, hold on. Please, nadad. I’ve got you.”

“Oh, good. Not alone then,” He managed in a thready whisper. “Dreams never included you. Mahal has decided to be kind.”

Thorin pressed his forehead against Frerin’s and Frerin could smell ichor and battle on him. But he was warm, so warm and bright. Frerin felt wetness against his hair, and he made a noise of protest.

“HELP HIM!”

“Thorin, please. Much too late for that. I should like to spend this last moment with my brother.” He managed a fragile smile in the dark. “My king.”

“No, no, you will live. You can’t leave me, Frerin. Please, you can’t. I promised to keep you safe. I promised.”

“I’m not scared anymore. You kept me safe all these years, and the stars do not frighten me. They’re not as cold as I remember. They’re really, rather beautiful. I see why you loved them so, they really are like diamonds.” His breath stuttered and he coughed once, tried to breathe, coughed again.

The light dimmed and his mouth filled with copper choking off his last words, and stealing the warmth that Thorin had given him seconds before. The light of the stars dimmed, one by one before his eyes. The last and brightest was the closest, and his last thought was that it wasn’t a star at all but his brother’s brilliant spirit. 


	6. Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo spends time in Rivendell and finally gets some answers and some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I owe more thanks to Strivingartist than there are words available. Their beta'ing of this monstrosity has been utterly invaluable! Send her cookies! Lots of them! 
> 
> There's a bit more of an exploration of Bilbo's dysphoria in this chapter, also there's more discussion on how the elves can help with the choices he has from here. And of course wonderfully pretty elves. I hope the chapter isn't triggering, but yeah we're getting into some things with Bilbo's self esteem and how he views himself. So just a heads up.

Rivendell, the great elven city of Imladris, it was everything he had been told and like nothing he could have ever imagined. It was glorious and shining and had an air of such calm and acceptance that Bilbo never wanted to leave. 

They were welcomed late in the evening by Elrond. They were offered a lovely meal and some of the softest and most comfortable beds this side of Bree. Their host was kind and witty keeping the conversation light and on happy topics, though Bilbo was becoming ever more aware of his reasons for being in the city of elves.

The tea was not working. Or it was not working well. His periods were lighter, but they still came with frightening regularity and his body was changing. Frankly, he wished it would just stop. Every day there seemed to be yet another bit of betrayal. And his moods, oh dear, his moods were awful. If he broke down and cried once more about a rock in his bedroll he’d throw himself off a cliff. 

But they were here now, and Bilbo could feel that jittery excitement building inside him. This was the place that could help, right? But, what if they couldn’t? What if he and his mother had come all this way and it didn’t work? Oh that dreadful thought had kept him awake late into the night for the last week. The closer they got to Rivendell, the worse he felt, and the less he had slept. 

And now he was seated at the table with Elrond and all the other elves and he wanted to just shout, ‘fix me’, and have it be done. But he bit his tongue instead, kept quiet, drank the tea that was offered and picked at the food. When the conversation lapsed and his head began to nod he was guided to his bedroom to be settled to sleep.

The morning dawned in his room and he woke and dressed hurriedly for breakfast. After a quick meal of porridge and dried fruit, Bilbo followed one of the elves along the winding paths up to a smaller house. It was set aside from the rest, with large doors that let in the light. Curtains of fine white linen covered many of the windows, offering privacy but retaining the light and openness of the room. 

Three elves were in the room Bilbo only recognized Lord Elrond. Bilbo’s hands were sweaty and he rubbed them on his trousers to no avail. This was it, time to find out if the elves could help him or not. His mother was already in the room, speaking quietly with one of the elves in the back, and she offered him a kind smile. 

“Mister Baggins, it’s good of you to join us.” Elrond said and guided him to sit up onto a hobbit-sized chair. “How is the tea we sent helping?

He bit his lip and shrugged. “It’s not really helping much,” He said. “I’m still bleeding, though only for a couple of days instead of the seven I did the first time. They’re not as painful as mother told me they might be.” He fisted his trousers and tried to keep his calm, but talking about it was equal parts embarrassing and depressing. Who was he kidding, this was yet more proof that the Valar wanted him to be a girl. Lord Elrond and the other elves were just going to let him down gently and he’d have to go back to Hobbiton as Miss Baggins. Just the thought made him feel sick. 

“Hmmm, I had thought as much. Hobbits are built differently than elves, our bodies require little in the way of herbal supplement to effect a change such as this. But hobbits require something more. Myself and several of my kin have been going over this problem since we received your first letter.” Elrond said. 

Bilbo wasn’t sure he believed his own ears. It didn’t sound as if Elrond was about to deliver bad news. But he couldn’t let himself hope, not yet. Not without some further proof. 

“You don’t think it’s wrong? That I’m trying to change what the Valar have chosen for me?” 

“No, Bilbo, I do not think it wrong. Elves, men and even dwarves all have their ways of effecting the transition you wish to achieve. We just need to find one that works with hobbits. I still think that nature is the way for you.

“Dwarves deal well with the brute change Dwarven choosing stones apply. Elves though require less force, and I would think that hobbits are somewhere in the middle of the two.” Elrond continued as he took one of Bilbo’s hands and unclenched it from his trousers. “By the time you leave our halls we will have found a solution for you. I promise.”

Bilbo shook in his seat and he was very glad his mother was there. She swept him into a hug, though his hand was still gently clasped in Elrond’s. Perhaps it was too early to cry, they hadn’t even figured out what plant or flower would work for him yet. He had a promise from the Lord of Rivendell, a healer so great he had heard of him even in the shire. That had to mean something. 

“All right then. The first thing we’re going to do is increase the potency of the tea you are currently taking. I think we’ll add an adjunctive therapy as well. Perhaps it just needs a simple kick so to speak. We might even be able to help with that awful taste, hmm?” 

Bilbo let out a shaky laugh. “Oh that would be a blessing in and of itself.”

*

A month passed and they were still adjusting his tea. Thankfully, all his time wasn’t spent in the healer’s, house and he was given plenty of opportunity to explore Rivendell and all its many secrets. He had found the library very early in his explorations and had taken to reading there in the mornings with the spectacular eastern sunshine. He and his mother would picnic and discuss what they would put in their letters to home for the evening.

Elrond had been kinder still and loaned them the use of one of his doves to exchange letters with home, which was much faster than general post. His father’s letters were a joy to read. He could hear Bungo’s gruff voice as he described the progress of his wine cellars and how he was thinking of expanding the garden and adding another human sized room near the back of the smial, just in case this adventure lead to more visitors.

Bilbo told his father of all that he had seen and how the elves were being so helpful and understanding. He told Bungo about the stories he read and about meeting Glorfindel the Balrog slayer. _Did you know he slew a balrog, da? A balrog! And he lived to tell the tale! Well, Sort of, but the story is fantastic._

The rest of his time was his own; he spent much of it alone in the gardens. He didn’t mind being alone, he was used to it. Once he had turned fifteen the other hobbit lads and lasses had stopped coming round. Their families had felt him too odd. He still had his cousins; Fortinbras was awfully silly at times, but he was still a good bloke, and of course his neighbor’s son, Hamfast was a nice enough young hobbit. Hamfast preferred gardens to reading, but loved to listen to the stories that Bilbo would tell, and his dad Hobson didn’t seem to mind a whit whether Bilbo wore skirts or trousers.

So, maybe it wasn’t all that lonely in the Shire. However, it certainly felt like it some days, when Otho and Lobelia and some of the others his age would stop talking when he walked by, or would find something else to do if he was near. Being alone in elven gardens was preferable to that. 

“Books don’t usually read themselves, little hobbit.” 

Bilbo started and looked around the glade. The clearing he was in appeared empty but for himself. There were several old and gnarled trees around the perimeter with flowering plants and herbs blooming around their trunks. The grass he lay on was soft as any from home and smelled fresh and crisp. He must had been dozing. Bilbo shook his head and turned back to his book, not sure where he’d left off. 

“Oh come now, we’re not that hidden. Surely you can spot us if you but try.” 

Another voice, off to his left this time. Bilbo narrowed his eyes and closed the book with a snap. “If you’re having fun at me, I’ll tell you right now I don’t like it. Not one bit,” he said to the trees and whoever was lurking in them. 

“Not at you little hobbit.” Said the first voice, coming from his right and up a ways. “But we’d like to have fun. And you seem to be quite spiritless there, we thought we’d free you from your boredom, perhaps.” 

Bilbo stood, brushing grass and dirt from his trousers and followed the voice in one of the trees. “And how do you plan to free me from boredom when I can’t even see you? I suppose this works for a bit but what if I get bored with your shenanigans and decide to take myself back to the library instead?” 

There was a whistle of air before, with a soft thud, feet hit the grass behind him. He turned to find two elves, remarkably similar in appearance looking at him with equally unrepentant grins. Both had long dark hair, braided in the elven style, they wore riding clothes similar to the ones that Glorfindel and Gildor wore while travelling, and their expressions were at once very young and very old. 

The one on the left bowed and his eyes crinkled in mischief. “Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Elladan, and this is my charming brother, Elrohir. And you are Bilbo Baggins, esteemed guest of our father Lord Elrond.”

Bilbo spluttered and attempted his own bow which fell abysmally short. “A pleasure to meet you, though that still doesn’t answer my question. There are a great many books in the library and I’ve only just scratched the surface.” 

Elrohir scooped the book off the ground and thumbed through the pages. “Oh you’re reading about Celebrimbor. Or trying, considering you’ve barely turned a page in the last hour.” The elf looked up from the pages and his smile was full of mischief. “Rings of power do not interest you, little hobbit?” 

Bilbo snorted. “Jewelry of any kind is beyond fathoming to most hobbits. You can’t plant it, and you can’t eat it. It’s just something to be stared at and coveted. The little I have read, all that pretty jewelry did was start a war.” 

The two elves shared a look, as one they shrugged. Bilbo wondered what it would have been like to have a brother or sister so close that a simple gesture could convey so much. He didn’t have time to truly ponder it as both elves walked over to him and hoisted him up between them and led him from the garden. 

“Wait, I have to put the book back. I can’t leave it out here.” 

“Where is it going to go, Master Baggins? It is not likely to wander, and it will be here for your return.” Elladan said smoothly. 

“But what if it rains? I’d hate to think of it getting wet.” 

The two stopped and looked up at the cloudless sky. “Can hobbits not tell when it’s about to rain? Seems very odd since they pride themselves so on the growing of things. Worry not, it shan’t rain for some days yet.” 

Bilbo huffed and squirmed in their grasp. “If I’m to accompany you, may I do so under my own two feet then, and not be carried like a faunt?”

The collective sigh of the two elves heralded his safe return to the ground where he adjusted his waistcoat, then nodded. “Lead on then. What do you two have in mind to relieve me of my boredom?”

“We heard our ada and your ama talking about the renovations going on at home,” Elladan began. “Something about a wine cellar?”

Bilbo looked at the two elves quizzically. “And what does that have to do with me?” He most certainly was not thinking about his father’s jibe about bringing some. Could elves read minds? No, that was preposterous, that only happens in stories Bilbo, not in real life. 

“A new wine cellar should never be empty,” Elrohir said with a devious smirk. “So we’re here to help you stage a raid on ada’s.” 

“What? NO!! Are you mad. I can’t do that to your father. He’s being very kind to me!” Bilbo turned around, heading back to his books. There was no way he was going to raid a wine cellar. No matter how fun it might sound. 

One of the brothers caught him by the shoulder. “Bilbo, Bilbo, peace. You are not going to get in trouble for this. It’s a bit of fun. Ada is going to give your mother a couple of bottles to take home before you leave. But we know where he keeps the really good stuff. Erestor has a stash down there that’s been there since sometime in the second age. Tell me you haven’t done this sort of thing at home and we’ll forget about the whole idea and go do something more fun.” Elrohir said. He knelt so that he was eye level with Bilbo, and he was struck once again by how similar the two were. Elven aging so weird for Bilbo, they could be a hundred years apart and he wouldn’t have a clue. Something told him that wasn’t the case, they were twins. And yet, Bilbo could tell them apart. Five minutes of conversation and Bilbo was quite sure he knew which was which. 

They both had identical looks of sincerity. “So this just like a pantry-raid?” 

“Yes! Just the same. In fact, we can do both, they’re rather close.” 

Bilbo adjusted his weskit. “Why didn’t you say so. Pantry-raids are my speciality.”

Both of them grinned and he could read excitement clearly on their faces, and he was struck by how young they were. They reminded him of his Brandybuck cousins, Rori and Dodinas. Bilbo felt a pang of envy but brushed it aside with an answering smile.

“Fantastic,” they said in unison and bounded off down one of the many twisting staircases. Bilbo was tugged along, and he had to run fast to keep up with their quicker gait. He was gasping by the time they reached the largest of the outbuildings. It was a two storey structure with the same façade as the others with many tall windows, an upper balcony and soft colours.

The ground floor though was a bustle of activity with elves going hither and yon. Bilbo had been in Rivendell for close to a month now and he had not seen so many elves in one location before. It was practically bursting with people.

It sounded just like the big kitchens in the Shire. When there were parties at the Great Smial and all the families gathered to have huge parties and cookouts. They wandered around the outer edge, avoiding the kitchen and most of the elves until they found a hallway. Elrohir held up his hand and they both stopped, hugging a corner. Bilbo couldn’t see what was happening beyond; after several weighty moments Elrohir continued their journey down the hallway.

They reached a small staircase and Elladan stood at the top for several minutes. Bilbo looked at the other twin, questioning. Elrohir just held a finger to lips and winked.

“All clear,” Elladan said and then took the stairs down into the gloom. Bilbo crept behind them as quietly as he could, not daring to breathe. There were several torches lit at the bottom of the stairway which revealed a room double the size of Brandyhall. It was cavernous; with crates, barrels and all sorts of paraphernalia around. There were large cases that stood floor to ceiling with glass bottles lining each of the shelves.

The light cast by the torches reflected off the bottles and the resulting lights danced about the room. Bilbo wandered down one of the many aisles, looking this way and that. “What are we looking for?” he asked as he looked back at the twins.

Both of them jumped and looked at him in shock. “You, little hobbit. are rather sneaky. I thought you were behind us.” Elrohir whispered. “This is selection of wines was recently procured so we need to head deeper down.”

They walked down the aisle and took several turns; the wine cellar was a twisting warren. From the little he could see of the walls, they were roughed out, as if they’re were in a natural cavern of some kind. It was cooler the deeper they went, with just the barest hint of breeze.

Elrohir stopped at a cross and took a torch from one of the large beams. “Ell, you head down that way, I’ll take this one. Bilbo, you go north.”

“What am I looking for?” Bilbo asked peering into the dark of the northern aisle.

“It’ll be dusty, very old, with a picture of crashing waves and high cliffs.” Elrohir said as he headed down his aisle, and Elladan headed down his. Bilbo waffled in the middle of the cross for a few minutes contemplating the northern aisle.

A sudden breeze whistled down the passageway and chilled him. He shivered where he stood. He remembered the ghost stories his uncles would tell them by the fire. The wind always howled down empty and dark hallways. Mentally shaking himself for being so easily frightened he picked up his pace and headed down the hall. He was not some faunt to be easily scared in dark places. He survived a midnight run from orcs. He straightened his shoulders and held his head up. Yes, a dark alley in a wine cellar was no match for Bilbo Baggins.

He picked up his pace and peered at the shelves on either side. It was hard to read a lot of them; they were very dusty the further he went. The wind had also picked up as if he were getting close to an opening or another door. He hoped that the bottle he was looking for was low to the ground. Bilbo really didn’t enjoy the idea of having to climb up onto one of these shelves. Heights were one thing and he didn’t doubt his ability to climb, he was a hobbit after all, but there was a large assortment of glass around him and all it would take is one careless foot to upset the whole thing. Yes, better to look near the bottom row of the shelves. He’d locate the brothers if he didn’t have any luck.

Bilbo spent a while perusing the wine, pulling out a bottle and putting it back, He was having no luck in finding that particular label and was getting rather disheartened. He was busy contemplating a wine bottle with a set of swords as the pictograph when he heard something behind him.

He turned and his ears pricked at the sound, trying to pinpoint it. It came again, a soft breathy sound. Bilbo narrowed his eyes. Would the twins be playing a trick on him? Perhaps. He wouldn’t put it past them. Well, they didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was a Took, just as much as his mother. He hefted the bottle in his hand like a weapon and crept toward the noise.

It became louder in one moment, quiet in the next. As if someone were trying to keep hidden. He tightened his grip on the bottle, and continued his sneaking. He would catch them unawares, hobbits were masters of being silent. He heard the rustling of fabric followed by a heavy thump and the gentle tinkle of glass knocking together.  
They were close. They couldn’t hide from him. He was too good at this. He gripped the bottle tight in his hands and jumped around the corner ready to scare the twins with a furious battle cry.

The cry died in his throat and became a choked garbling squawk. Those were not the twins. Several things happened all at once. The two barely clothed elves jumped apart, one fell into the wine rack on one side and on the other. There was a sound of rattling glass followed by a flash of movement as the blond elf reached above the other in time to catch a bottle before it brained his companion.

Both elves turned to face Bilbo. He squeaked and turned back the way he came running as fast as he could through the twisting and turning paths. Oh dear. That had been Glory. Oh Valar, he had nearly brained him with a bottle of wine. And now he was lost in this accursed place, and Glorfindel was going to find him and he was the Balrog Slayer and he’d nearly brained his… well… friend was not an appropriate word. Bilbo didn’t have any friends that he would be willing to kiss in such a way as all that. Though… they had both obviously been male, and that was another thing that was all sorts of odd.

The point was, Glorfindel was very good with swords and all sorts of weapons and Bilbo was a very little hobbit and easy to skewer. He shook his head and took another turn to the right. Find the twins, get out of the wine cellar and hope to the Valar Glorfindel didn’t find him and kill him. 

Or worse, tell his mum.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he picked up his speed. He didn’t stop until he rounded a corner to find the stairs. Blissful, wonderful, lifesaving stairs. He took a deep breath and ran, took the stairs as fast as his hobbit feet could take them and continued to run until he was out in the sun and by a tree.  
He collapsed against it and dropped the wine on the ground next to him. Gasping in great huge lungfuls of air. His face was hot and most likely beet red he assumed and his hands shook his knees felt like they’d turn to jelly and his heart was thudding in his chest. 

He let out a squawk when a hand grabbed his shoulder and he jumped and fell to the ground. He clutched his head and glared at the brothers who looked as if they had just come from a morning stroll, both with several bottles of wine in their hands and equally inquisitive looks.

“Peace, Bilbo. What happened? Did the ghosts scare you?” Elladan jested.

Bilbo shook his head and waited for his heart to stop thudding. He took a couple of deep slow breaths and managed “Gl-Glor in th-the cellar.” He took another gulp of air. “Glorfindel. I ran into Glorfindel.”

The twins waved their hands. “He was probably just getting some wine of his own. He would have helped with the prank. No need to run, despite all the stories, he’s really rather nice.” Elrohir supplied.

“No, it wasn’t that… he was with someone. Another elf they were...” Words failed him and he ended up making several useless hand gestures. The uncomprehending faces of the twins did not help and he spluttered. “They were almost naked.”

“Oh, was he with Gildor? They sometimes sneak down there. It’s a good place if you want to hide.”

Bilbo stared at them wide eyed. “That. Wasn’t. Gildor.” Oh did he catch something even more inappropriate. Valar, this was just getting worse.

Elladan shrugged. “Must have been Erestor then.”

“What?”

Elrohir picked up the forgotten bottle of wine and the elves guided him away from the kitchens and back through the gardens to a quiet area. “Gildor, Erestor, and Glorfindel have been together since the First Age, Bilbo.”

Bilbo blinked. Then blinked again. Nope. He sat heavily on the stone bench and looked between the two elves. “You’re not making fun of me are you?”

“We’re utterly serious, those three are together. They meander into and out of a relationship as the ages pass, but they’re never far from each other.” Elladan said quietly. He set the bottles of wine down and took the others from Elrohir. “Do you not have that in your shire?”

Bilbo shrugged. “I don’t think so? A hobbit man takes a bride and then they have children, that’s all there is to it.” He looked at the pair again and eyed them, worriedly. “I’m not going to get in trouble am I. Should I apologize? That was awfully rude of me and I shouldn’t have barged in like that.”

“Glorfindel and Erestor of all people should know better than to be caught kissing in the wine cellar. They remind us we’re children often enough when we go hiding down there.” Elladan sat down next to Bilbo on the bench and stretched his legs out. “Do hobbits only marry for children? I heard your parent’s marriage was a love match.”

Bilbo flushed a bit but nodded. “I should still apologize. If it weren’t for me, that wine bottle wouldn’t have fallen. And thank the Valar for Glorfindel’s quick reflexes. The bottle could have killed Erestor from that height.” Bilbo chose not to mention that it had been a bit more than kissing. That was not his tale to tell, and it would be unseemly. 

The talk of love matches drew his attention. “Mum and Da married for love. Most hobbits do, I assume. But it’s only ever a male hobbit and a girl hobbit getting together.”

Bilbo chewed his lip and thought about that some more. No, never in his young life had he seen two boy hobbits get together and marry. He’d never really thought about those sorts of things really. He didn’t have anyone he was really keen on at home. Everard was rather nice, and he was getting rather tall for a hobbit. Perhaps he had more Fallohide in him. He also had a very nice laugh. But, Everard was boy, like Bilbo was. Right?

He had so many more questions now. He looked at the twins and attempted a smile. They seemed content with that and drew the conversation on to more interesting topics such as raiding the pantries. Bilbo was able to offer some advice since he had more experience in that. But he was also churning over his new thoughts. He needed to talk to Elrond, he would know what to make of this. Preferably without his mother present. This was something he needed to know on his own.

*

It was another week before he could secure a meeting with Elrond alone. He understood his mother was concerned, but this had to do with him now, and he couldn’t let her run his health anymore, even if she had his best interests at heart. At some point he had to take control. And this was that moment. 

There was so many changes happening. He was glad that she was here, and he hoped he could speak with her later, but for now he needed to be the one leading this.

Also it helped that he really didn’t want to ask Elrond about boys and kissing in front of his mother. She would be her unflappable self he was sure, but he would hide behind propriety and not wish to be rude. Answers would not be forthcoming if he didn’t find some courage. He felt as if he was shaking when he walked into the Healing House. Elrond gave him a kind smile and bid him sit down in the hobbit-sized chair they had found for him.

He took the seat gratefully. He hadn’t found his voice yet and he wasn’t sure where to begin. Elrond handed him a cup of his tea and he took a sip, prepared for the bitterness that accompanied it. They’d been testing it since he had arrived and they still couldn’t really mitigate the taste all that much. Until this morning. He started and looked up at Elrond. “How? What did you use? It’s almost sweet.”

“No sugar, I promise. We’ve adjusted a few of the ingredients and changed how they were added. One of which was the stems and roots of the plant. They have a very bitter and overpowering flavour when mixed in large quantities. But if we create an infusion, with the adjunctive herbs we’ve come across, most notably the lavender and the rosemary, the bitterness is mitigated.

“The difference is that now it is much stronger than the original blend. And you no longer need to drink it as a simple tea. You can have it on its own, or you can add it to your meals.” Elrond said and Bilbo caught a true smile on the elf’s generally neutral face.

“So I don’t have to worry about special tea services anymore, or any of that…” Bilbo trailed off as he looked down at the teacup. He took another sip. It was regular tea, the sweetness now that he looked was the milk. It had been so long since he’d had an ordinary cup of tea with a bit of milk in it. While the tea hadn’t been such a big thing in the beginning it had been an … othering. It was a reminder that he was different from the other hobbits. That in order to feel right within his own skin he required outside aide.

“No separate tea services, no special silverware, no special cups. Nothing of the kind,” Elrond assured. “We’ll continue testing dosages and monitoring your reactions.”

Bilbo nodded. He was used to Elrond’s cadence and his tone in these meetings. He was always kind, he was also very intelligent and liked to teach. Bilbo had learned that Elrond had a habit of lecturing on whatever subject was at hand. Thankfully for the elf, Bilbo was a voracious reader and adored learning. He had spent many hours in the Healing House with Elrond listening to all the elf chose to teach him.

“Unfortunately, the developments you’ve already experienced are unlikely to completely go away.”

Bilbo stared at Elrond for a second trying to piece through that odd way of speaking. “Are you talking about my breasts, Elrond?” Bilbo looked down. The weskit he wore was snug, but he could see the bulge of soft flesh where he wished flat chest to be. “So if they won’t go away, what’s the alternative?”

“There are a few, but the first and most accessible one is a type of binding.” Elrond stood and urged Bilbo to follow. They went into another room off the main one; inside were several small dummies. Each one of them looked empty on first inspection, but they had a thin material covering them, almost like a type of small clothes. Elrond lifted one off a dummy with a bit of effort and handed it to Bilbo.

“The material is very light-weight, breathable, but it should provide you with the necessary support. It should also be safer than other alternatives. We have three of them made for you to try on to adjust fit. And more will be made before you leave. Would you like to try it on?”

Bilbo took the shirt in his hands and nodded. He slipped into the lavatory and undressed quickly. He barely spared a look at himself in the mirror before donning the shirt. It was snug. Very snug, but it wasn’t tight. He felt restricted across his chest but still able to breathe and he could still move to dress without additional trouble.

He dressed in the rest of his clothes, buttoned his weskit and looked down at his front. The weskit didn’t fit him properly anymore, it was loose at the top where his breasts had been, leaving extra fabric between his shoulders. He would have to buy a few new weskits. He smoothed a hand down his now flatter chest. Finally he looked up at the mirror he had been ignoring.

He turned to one side, the other. Bilbo ran from the lavatory and hugged Elrond fiercely, nearly upsetting the tall elf with his sudden outburst. The elf said nothing, but he made a point of kneeling down and hugging Bilbo properly.

“It suits you,” Elrond said quietly.

“Thank you. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but the last year has been so weird and difficult in so many ways… “ He didn’t have the words for it all. “Thank you, Elrond, for everything you’ve done, for all your help.”

“Bilbo, it has been my honour to help you. This is but one part of your journey. There are many other decisions you will have make as you grow up.” Elrond guided them back into the previous room. “There are many instructions with this material now. I know you are very excited about it, but your health and safety are paramount. It can be worn comfortably for several hours at a time, but I would not exceed four as you get used to it, and after then no more than eight hours, maximum. When you’re sick your lungs need to be able to move, and this restricts their movement.

“Not as much as the human versions of the same, but it does some. So, I would suggest not wearing it while you are ill, and never while you sleep.” Elrond gave him a small smirk. “I will make sure to write this down for you. I know you’re too excited right now to remember it all.”

Bilbo shrugged. “Don’t wear it too long and never when sick, seems to be the gist.”

Elrond didn’t speak for a few minutes, and Bilbo got the impression he was weighing something in his mind. As if he wanted to broach a subject but wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it.

“Bilbo, I know we have mentioned in the past, that there are other more permanent options available to you. Have you given them any thought?”

“That’s the ultimate goal isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily, my friend. It is an option. Some decide to go through the process in Lothlorien, others have found they are happy with the results of the supplements. Some wish for only part of the treatments in Lothlorien, and decide to forego the rest. I would never presume to push a choice on you. There are many things to consider, which is why we council that it happen when you come of age.

“The concern I have though, is that unlike an elf, your kind come of age rather quickly. Fifteen years may seem like a lifetime to you, but it is barely a blink in our lives. I want you to have all the information, so you can be confident when you take those next steps.”

Bilbo thought for a long moment, it was a lot of information to process and really didn’t answer any of his questions. He was nervous and he knew if his mother was there she’d have all the answers, or at least know the right questions to ask.

“Is it painful, or scarring or I don’t know… I’m not even sure what the procedure is.”

Elrond seemed to hesitate for a bare instant before he spoke again. “The procedure involves old magics Bilbo, and I will not lie to you, it can be very painful. It is a longer process, and takes several months to complete while you recuperate. It has been done very successfully on both Men and Elves, but you would be the first Hobbit. And we do not know how your body will react to the magic.

“I do not wish to alarm you, Bilbo. These are big decisions, none of which have to be made now. But it is better to be aware of them. 

Bilbo shrugged. “I don’t know,” He said, honestly. “I mean it’s just sort of expected in the Shire. You find your favourite hobbit, give them a few flowers, make a cake and boom married, then come the kids.” He waved a hand. “That’s rather simplistic. I just don’t know where I fit into all of that.” He picked up his now lukewarm tea and finished it off. “Mum explained everything about where hobbit babies comes from. I think that she’s as lost as I am. She doesn’t know what part to really explain to me, so she explained all of it.”

Elrond waited while Bilbo floundered for an explanation. He never pushed, and he didn’t give the impression that he was too busy to listen. A blessing, since Bilbo felt he was making a hash of this whole thing.

“I just.” He took a deep breath and tried again. “I don’t know if I like hobbit girls. Or if I ever marry one if I could have children that way even if I wanted to. And what kind of hobbit would I be if I couldn’t father children. It’s a rather big deal in the Shire. The fact that mum and da only had me is scandal enough.

“But on the other side, what if I like boy hobbits? Does that make me a girl?” He stared at Elrond, desperate for him to say something. The terror or shock on his face was enough to for Elrond’s calm mien to disappear behind a full smile.

“Bilbo, it is quite all right. There are more ways to love than there are people in this world. And love and attraction are different things. You can love someone without ever being attracted to them, and Vis versa. As I’m sure you’re aware with your visit to the wine cellar.”

The tea cup in Bilbo’s hands shook and he set it down. He gawped and tried to speak but no words would come and Elrond held of his hand. “It is quite all right. You have already apologized, and Glorfindel wasn’t the one to tell. I have two sons and I know when they’ve gotten themselves into trouble. I managed to pry out what happened to several of my good wines.

“You have remarkable taste by the way. A wine from the First age. Your father will be giddy with it. Tell him to drink it slowly. Wine from that long ago will pack a rather potent kick.”

Bilbo snorted. “You haven’t had Hobson’s secret brew. I’ll get da to send you some.” He still felt embarrassment colour his face and his ears and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“The point is, Bilbo. You have come face to face with something that you have no experience with. I will tell you though, there is no shame in it. If you find that you love another man, that doesn’t make you less of a man. And if he is worthy of you, my friend, he will know that as well.”

Bilbo let out a huff of air, and nodded vigorously. “So I’m not damaged, then?”

“Oh Bilbo, no, you are not damaged. I think I have some books for you in the library. You may read them here, but I do believe they need to go home with you.”

“What? Take some of your books! I could never.”

“You can and you will. They are treatises on gender and relations. They’re from the second age, but they cover a lot of information about elves, dwarves and men. Perhaps you can add your own section about hobbits. What do you say?”

Bilbo gulped. “To a Treatise, written by your people, in the Second Age. You wish me to add to that?”

“Your experiences would be invaluable. And you can perhaps open up some minds at home. It might help you. And it will certainly help the next little hobbit that has your dilemma.”

He blinked. “I never thought of that,” he whispered. “There could be others couldn’t there. I mean, I can’t be the only one.”

“Likely you’re not, but you have a very unique mother. And you are a very courageous hobbit. You are young and yet you have managed to hold to the strength of your convictions about you and who you are. I admire that very much, Bilbo Baggins.” 

Blibo sputtered and tried to pass off what Elrond had just said, but the elf was adamant, so Bilbo thanked him, though he truly didn’t feel very strong. 

The rest of Bilbo’s time in Rivendell had been a wonderful mix of books, pulling more pranks with the twins, and learning about all things Sindarin. He was ecstatic to be able to practice and pick up the new language and he spoke it as often as he could.

He missed the Shire, especially during the Midsummer festival. The party at the Party tree would have been fantastic and the games for the faunts and tweens was quite fun. But the Elven celebration had been nice, Elladan, Elrohir and he stayed up until the wee hours of the morning eating sweets, and planned more pranks. They told stories about heroes from the last age and some of their own adventures.

Bilbo loved it all. If he didn’t miss his father so much he would have been content to stay in Rivendell forever. But as the weather turned chilly, his mother and Glory were looking to take them back home.

Reports of attacks on the road came in with greater frequency in those days. His new friends all went out to roust out the Orcs that seemed to be camping on the Great East Road. It took them several weeks, and by the time they returned, battered and bloodied, but victorious, the snows had started and the opportunity for travel had passed them by.

Bilbo was torn between elation at staying longer and a bone deep homesickness that had started the week before. He really liked his friends and the longer he stayed the better Elrond had been able to perfect the medicine.

It had become a simple infusion now, and over the last few months Bilbo had noticed several changes; his voice had started cracking, getting deeper with each week that past.  
His features lost their softness, his jawline was more defined. The mirror had stopped lying to him.

Elrond had said the changes would likely continue for the next few years. Bilbo went to bed each night giddy with excitement at the changes, and guilty for being happy to be away from his home.

His mum missed his father terribly and she wrote him daily. She looked so sad that winter without Bungo. Bilbo didn’t know how to make her feel better, if it was even in his power to do so. But he tried to cheer her up; he read stories to her and made up songs.

The winter itself was blustery and cold, and fire pits and fireplaces showed up all around Imladris. Beautiful decorative canisters and containers that held coloured glass that burned hot, but gave off no smoke. They kept the worst of the cold at bay and meant that even at the height of winter Bilbo could enjoy reading in the gardens.

By the time winter ended Bilbo was eager to be back on a pony and heading back home. He promised all his friends he would write, and took home with him many gifts; including several books from Elrond’s library, and even more bottles of wine the twins had pilfered from the cellar. He also went home with an elaborate glass kit wrapped securely to another pony for his medicine. Elrond had taught him the finer points of creating the infusion and how to cultivate and properly boil the plants in order to receive maximum effectiveness.

There were many hugs and promises to visit again, and he and his mother, along with Glorfindel and Gildor left the glittering enclave and headed back home.

Twelve days later they entered the Shire proper and rounded the corner to Bag End. His father was out of the door and sweeping his mum off her pony before she had to chance to drop the reins. Bilbo dismounted and ran to join the hug. It was several minutes before Bungo let them go, and he looked at Bilbo and ruffled his hair gently. 

“Bilbo, my lad. You’ve changed so much.” 

Bilbo bit his lip and tugged at his coat. “Are you angry?” 

“By all that is green, no!” He swept Bilbo up in a hug. “This is what you wanted. And the elves helped you?”

“Yes, da.” 

“And you remembered the wine?”

Bilbo opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Glorfindel. “He did, but he missed one bottle.” Glorfindel reached into his bag and hauled out a rather familar bottle of wine. 

“Compliments of Erestor.”


	7. A Guttering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Azanulbizar and the years spent in Ered Luin. Thorin POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Striving-Artist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist)  
>  She is magic! Seriously. 
> 
> A Thorin Feels chapter. This chapter is also Subtitled "Thorin doesn't get to have nice things". 
> 
> Updated the tags, if you see anything missing, let me know!
> 
> [Thorin's Playlist](http://8tracks.com/mephestopheles-rex/interludes-of-my-still-beating-heart-thorin-s-mix) First of Three planned Soundtracks to accompany the fic.

#  A Guttering

The sun had set over the mountains, and plunged the valley into darkness. The only light that came from the funeral pyres that had been hastily built. Fires burned through the Dimrill Dale, bodies upon bodies of dwarves smoldered throughout the third night after the battle.

Three bodies lay in the tent Thorin once called his own. His grandfather’s headless corpse, Frerin’s next to him, and Fundin’s body had been found not forty feet from Frerin’s. They had surreptitiously brought both bodies into the tent and had them cleaned.

Only Thror’s body was known to be here. And they had still not found his father’s. Three days and no sign of his father’s body amongst the innumerable dead.

“We go to Ered Luin then,” Haldis said to those gathered.

Thorin stared at the corpse closest to him. Frerin’s body had been cleaned, and his wound sewn, his skin the sickly grey pallor that comes with death. Their dead was beyond counting, everyone who still lived had lost someone. His closest friends, Balin and Dwalin, had lost their father. They were sitting in the tent with them, trapped in their own grief.

“Thorin, we have to leave.”

The dwarves of Erebor had lost their king, their kin, and it had come to light that the Balrog, Durin’s Bane, still yet lived and roamed the halls of Khazad-Dûm. It was closed to them, and the death and battle had been meaningless. Thror would receive his own pyre, they were just preparing him. They had yet to decide about Frerin’s or Fundin’s. Thorin shrunk away from that decision, as he had from many others in the last few days.

He couldn’t make them, why were they asking him. His father was still alive out there. Three days with no body was unheard of. Thrain would come back or they would find him, and he could make the decisions. Leave Thorin out of it.

Frerin’s death had been meaningless. Thorin sat next to his brother’s body and stared at his chest, willing it to rise, just one more time, nadad. _Please for me, just once more._ They had wrapped the body in gauze and placed it in sackcloth.

“Thorin.” He started and jerked at the sound of his mother’s voice so close.

“We have to move. We cannot stay here much longer. You have led us this far without your father. You will lead us again.”

“Amad, I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t leave adad out there.” _I can’t burn Frerin_.

“You have to. We have no time. That creature could come up here at any moment, or the orcs could return in greater numbers. We are your people. Act like the prince I raised, and get up.”

He flinched, but nodded and rose. He felt so heavy, so tired. He had no choice.

“Thror will be brought out to join the honoured dead. We cannot show that their King is above those we’ve burned.” He took a deep breath. “As for Frerin and Fundin. Dwalin, find your most trusted guards. We’ll bury them in the mountain.”

“Thorin—“ Balin started, his voice thick, but Dwalin put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Thorin.” 

Dwalin left the tent. He returned and nodded once. “They’ll keep quiet, Gloin will report back, he has several connections. Knows a Broadbeam miner that’s here. His cousin is in the healing tent, but he’ll exchange his silence for Oin’s help.”

Thorin nodded. “Thank you, Dwalin. Whatever he needs, he’ll get. Once we’ve buried them, we’ll move out. I’ll need reports from the search effort, and I’ll need a host of volunteers who are willing to search further afield. We’re not sure where my father went, or if he was captured. But I want a score of dwarrow looking for him at all times.” He shifted his attention to his mother briefly then back to the body. “What’s in Ered Luin?”

“Your father had secured lordship of Ered Luin and it is one of the only places left to us.” Haldis said. Her voice was hard, iron.

“Balin has all the details, but we have a mountain again. You need to lead us there Thorin. You are a prince, and your people are counting on you.” Haldis took Thorin’s hand. “My boy, we have lost too much. And you have every right to grieve. But a prince’s duty is never done. And though you may grieve, you must carry on.”

Thorin nodded, dumbly. “We should leave soon, in order to make it there before the winter sets in,” He said. A broken sound left his throat and pressed his fist against his mouth. “I can’t say goodbye to him,” He whispered harshly. “I promised to keep him safe.”

“Drink, fight, sing, bury him in the mountain, do what you must. Tomorrow you will be prince again, and you will have to move on from here.” She kissed his temple. “Do not follow him. I have lost one child. Do not make me lose another.”

*

Travel across the mountains and through into the west was mercifully without incident. They travelled the old roads, dwarven built roads that crisscrossed the mountains and were known only to the Dwarrow. Khagal'abbad, the Blue Mountains, lay to the far west and covered the expanse from the Bay of Forchel down to the Grey Havens, with the open sea at its back and the rest of Middle Earth in front. It took several months over land to reach them. Their numbers were few because of the losses they suffered, but they still numbered in the thousands, and had with them children and injured, wagons and gear.

Thorin led a column of dwarrow soldiers ahead of the rest. Those able bodied dwarrow, men and women with training took up axe and shield, and flanked the rest of the caravan. The morning he buried Frerin in the hidden recess of the mountain, Thorin turned his back on Khazad-Dûm, and stepped out of the valley. He put one foot in front of the other until his footsteps were the only sound he could hear.

He worked by rote; handled correspondence, and the movement of people and goods across the mountain as if shifting pieces on the chessboard. The work kept him going, kept him functioning, though how well he didn’t know.

His mother and sister were still alive, and he tried to be there for them, tried to comfort them, for they had lost just as much as he, but he couldn’t offer them much and felt guilty for not trying harder.

The women of Durin were strong, stronger than even the men, Thorin thought. His mother never faltered and rode with him at the head of the column. Her back remained straight and she never once complained. She continued her ministrations in the camp, helping with the ill and the infirm at night. During the day she was every inch the Queen.

Dis - young, kind, Dis - had grown up overnight. She helped their mother during the evenings, and when travel grew too long and too tiring she would sing. Her voice was clear and rang out among them. The Princess of the Silver voice they called her. In the first days of travel she carried a lament for every dwarf that fell. She sat upon her pony and sang without accompaniment the old songs of loss and heartache. She shed many tears during those weeks.

Thorin wanted her to stop, begged her to at night, but she would hold him tightly and tug on his braids.

“I sing because you cannot. I cry because you cannot. And I will continue to do so until our grief is done.”

So she continued to sing, and as they crossed the mountains and followed the ancient roads her songs changed. Lamentations were put aside. She started singing of spring, and renewal and of hope. Though Thorin’s heart still grieved for all they had lost, to hear her voice eased something deep within him.

They reached Khagal'abbad in early autumn. The old dwarven stronghold had been abandoned years before and smelled of dust and neglect. Its foundations were strong, but it had not been seen to or cared for in several generations.

Rather than discourage the dwarrow though, it gave them something to do, a calling. Each dwarrow was assigned a task: from surveying to cooking, from excavation to sewing. Thousands of dwarrow set about rebuilding the old dwarven city back up to something approaching a home.

It wasn’t a home, not to Thorin, not to his sister nor his mother. It would never replace the splendor of Erebor. But it was warm, and for the first time in nearly three decades there was a mountain over their head.

Thorin buried himself in his work; he helped build forges and aqueduct see , oversaw plans and appointed advisors, and supervised guild masters. He dealt with foreign delegations from the other clans, and met with the human villages that lived on the outskirts of the mountain to open trade for food and grain. And always, always he continued to search for his father.

Ered Luin was not the jewel that the lonely mountain was, and it did not have the resources the other mountain ranges boasted, but it kept them fed, and warm, and as the years turned it took on a life of its own. Dwarrow from the other clans joined them, and some of their number left to join other clans.

It was not as difficult nor as crushing as the years of poverty and hardship on the road, but it ate at Thorin anyway. Perhaps, had Frerin lived, things would have been different. But he could not think thus. He spent the first two decades rebuilding the lives of his people and left nothing for himself.

His mother and sister were taken care of, his people had a mountain over them once more. There was nothing he wanted.

“You need to take a consort,” Haldis said one afternoon. They were alone, thank Mahal. His mother had enough tact not to utter such things where the council and his advisors could hear. The last thing he wanted was for those old busybodies to get it into their heads he needed match-making.

“And where did that come from?” He asked, looking up from the score of letters and tax documents on his desk. As much as he was glad for the distraction, this topic would not have been his first, nor his fiftieth choice.

“You are king, and I think it’s time you start looking. The line should continue, Thorin.” Haldis said. She was seated across from him, with her own desk and a stack of parchment, documents and letters of her own. She had become one his chief advisors in the first years, second only to Balin who had years of experience with the kings of Durin and their stubbornness.

“I’m seventy-four mother, not a hundred and four. Besides I’m not king yet.”

“You gave the proclamation of Thrain’s death two days ago. I have shorn my hair, and in three days there will be an official ceremony recognizing what we’ve all known. You are King.

“And you led an army against the Dimrill Gate at the age of fifty-two. You are an adult grown twice over. This place needs hope, it needs babies.” Haldis set down her quill pen. “I’m not saying you need to make an alliance with one of the other clans. There are plenty of lovely dwarrowdams around, a couple of them I might even like.”

Thorin smiled and looked back down at his work. “What if I said I much preferred my craft?”

“That’s utter bollocks. If that were the case I’d be dragging you from the forge every day. As it is you’re there perhaps twice a week.”

“And running a kingdom is not craft?”

“Not your craft. That was your grandfather’s. And his father’s. You my dear child, have a love of steel and iron, and oddly enough copper. Where you found your love of copper I do not know.”

“It sings,” He said simply and set his papers aside. Sighing he rubbed at his eyes. “Mother, I – I do not find myself attracted to dwarrowdam.”

“Other dwarrow?” She asked.

He stood and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. “If I were to love anyone, I believe they would be male, yes.” He poured a second goblet and handed it to his mother.

Haldis set aside her quill, and regarded her son for a few moments. “Thorin,” she started slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Do you feel an ache? An emptiness or a wanderlust, perhaps?”

“Since Erebor fell mother. Haven’t we all?” Thorin contemplated the liquid in his glass. “I do not know life without emptiness. To what are you referring?” That was too harsh and he winced, opening his mouth to apologize.

Haldis held up her hand. “I deserved that. The books romanticize Ones, and Mahal’s chosen, but I have seen its pain. A cousin of ours had a One. When I was very small, I watched them pine, and wait. They were always on the outskirts of life. They were in pain and had no way to fix it. It’s hard to recognize even in peaceful times that tethering of one soul to another.”

"You make Ones sound awful," He uttered quietly. “Did they have a happy meeting, were they happy together?”  

Haldis finished her wine and set the glass down. "I don't know inûdoy. Your father and I were not Ones. And the stories romanticize them to the point where it is difficult to tell truth from fiction. Perhaps my cousin was very happy in their life and I only assumed they were in pain because  they were not near their other half. 

"They eventually met but they didn’t recognize each other at first. Fought and danced around each other like water dancing on hot metal.” She smiled. “When they finally did recognize one another for who they were, it was very happy.”

Thorin let out a small breath. “I don’t know mother,” He answered honestly. “I’ve felt so much loss, I wouldn’t know one from the other. I still feel Frerin’s loss as if it were yesterday, and not twenty years gone.”

Haldis stood from her desk and tugged at one of Thorin’s braids gently. “Have you felt a longing, inûdoy?” She asked again.

Thorin looked at his hands and then back to his mother. “I fear it is a very undwarvish one, if that is what it is.” He admitted softly. “It comes and goes, I do not feel it every day. But there are times when I can smell fresh grass and flowers. Feel the heat of the sun on my skin, even deep in the halls. And if I am quiet, and alone, I can taste lemons, and something else.” He shrugged, helpless. “I’ve never had a lemon, but I know their scent, it is faint though. I fear that my One, if he even exists, isn’t born yet.”

“Abûnith,” Haldis said. “You will find him, when you are both ready.”

Thorin noticed once again that his mother looked remarkably vulnerable, she appeared small, fragile. His mother had never been fragile. When had she aged so, he wondered.  He leaned forward and kissed her temple. “I have you, and I have Dis, that is enough for me.”

She kissed his cheek and shook her head. “Perhaps, but do not be surprised if rumours spread about you having a One.”

“What are you planning mother?” Mahal only knew what was going on in her head at times, she had more plans and intrigues going than anyone else he knew.

“I am planning nothing, other than the survival of our house. Let them have the story of a noble King, holding himself back until he finds true love.” She smiled, and he could only marvel. “By the way, your sister has found someone.”

“What?”

“She has found someone, though I don’t believe she knows it yet. Durin women have always been more stubborn than the men. If he’s worthy he’ll keep coming back.”

Dis had a One, and had found them. She was barely sixty. That was much too young. What had stubborn to do with -- oh Mahal, no. “Amad, what did she do to the poor dwarrow?”

“He apparently tried to flatter her and called her that name they were throwing around years ago, Lady Silver-Song. He begged for a tune to light up his heart.” Haldis said, barely suppressing a laugh. “She pinned him to a wall with her throwing knives and left him there until his caravan came looking for him.”

“Good, sounds like she has everything well in hand,” Thorin said. “Though if that dwarrow comes back I should like to have a chat with him regarding his intentions. If he plans on courting a princess without going through the proper observances, One or not, Dis and I  shall skin him.”

*

Thorin looked down at the tiny dwarfling in his arms. The babe was hours old, bright pink and full of heath. They were covered in a fine downy hair, light as their father’s. “Hello ‘abnith-e,” Thorin whispered and clutched the tiny child against his heart.

Dis slept in the bed nearby, and the others had dragged Vili off to celebrate the birth of his first child. Thorin had stayed behind to watch over his sister and marvel at his new kin. He was seated in the chair by the fire, its flickering the only light in the room.

The child slept on his chest and clutched one of Thorin’s fingers in their tiny hand. Thorin’s free hand cupped the child’s tiny back and bottom. Such a tiny, fragile gift.

“I will never have a child of my own.” He whispered. “You are the child of my heart, ‘abnith. You are the first Durin of the new generation. My grandfather chose for me at birth, and it happened to coincide with what I was in my heart.” He kissed the top of the child’s head. “You will be given the right to choose, your mother, myself, and your grandmother had already decided.

“I, Thorin II Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, do hereby name you, Nadanu Kurdu-e, child of Dis, as my Heir, and Heir to the throne of Erebor.”

“Glad you waited till Vili was gone before you did that.”

Thorin started and cursed softly. The baby squirmed and rooted but settled without waking. “How long have you been listening?” Thorin asked.

“Long enough to hear you name my child your heir. And completely ignore their father in the bargain,” Dis said. She sat up carefully and settled back against the pillows. “Bring my babe here, they’re hungry or will be soon.”

Thorin handed the infant over and watched as Dis put the babe to her breast. “Vili is not from the House of Durin, you are. And therefore, in order for it to carry weight as a decree, they are your child.”

“And should my child decide that she would rather be a princess?”

“A princess can still be a king.”

“I know plenty of old dwarves who would disagree.”

“I’m King, I’ll make it a royal decree.” Thorin grinned. “Then I can officially name you my Regent. Once you’ve rested you can join me in the state meetings and the allocation meetings. Of course then there are the guild meetings and miners and excavators-”

“Enough! Oh sweet Mahal, enough. I gave birth to your heir. You can keep the paperwork.” Dis reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Thorin’s ear. “It is nice to hear you joke again nadad.”

Thorin leaned into her fingers and smiled. “Oh, I’m not joking. You have meetings all this week.”

Dis leaned over and pressed a kiss to his head. “I won’t be making them. You’ll have to reschedule them all, indefinitely. Had I known a child would bring back your smile, I would have had them much earlier than this, nadad.”

Thorin settled more on the bed and ran a hand along the child’s back. “I smile,” he said, “not as often as before. But I do smile, and they are all for you, namadith. And now they’re also for the babe,”

“Vili and I would like to call them Fili.”

“And a lovely and strong name it is. I’m not removing his rights as father, Dis. I would never do that. But, this will stop the advisors. They keep bringing me dwarrows to see if they’re my One. None of them are, but I can’t tell the council that.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dis asked quietly.

“Yes, he is not here in Ered Luin, or in any of the other strongholds. Naming your child my heir means that Durin House will continue. And will stop this ridiculous nonsense.”

“Fine, I will agree to it for now. But I will be in control of their studies. I will not have any of my children go through the circus you and Frerin were put through.”

Thorin nodded, “My education was necessary for the circus I was expected to enter. Fili is going to inherit a different throne. Their education will have to reflect that. Thank Mahal, that’s still years away.”

*

“Amad, where are you going?” Thorin took his mother’s arm and slipped his own around her waist. She had lost more weight and her robe billowed around her small frame.

“I am going outside to see the stars,” She said, her voice thin and reedy. “Someone once told me they were diamonds.” She smiled and patted his cheek and he kissed her palm.

Thorin hesitated and looked back to her bed. The room was warm from the fire, the scent of medicine and ointment pervaded the air. It had been more sick room than bedroom these last months.

“Thorin, I am not going back to that bed. Should you wish to join me that is your choice, but I am going to see stars tonight.”

He sighed, turned away from the bed, brought his mother closer to him and led them from the chamber, through the winding hallways and pathways through the mountain.

“Why stars mother? They have brought nothing but pain to us.”

“The stars? No, inûdoy, the stars are not the cause of our strife. They are far beyond the cares of this world.” Haldis said, between pained breaths.

He clutched her close, worried she’d trip on a loose stone. But her feet were sure and her gait steady though she held onto him just the same.

Once they reached the upper ramparts, Thorin took them through a recessed doorway and out to the side of the mountain. The wind was high and the ocean rolled dully from the beaches far below.

The sky was dark and clear and stars glittered high above their heads. Thorin took off his cloak and wrapped his mother in it as they sat down in a dry grassy patch. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and he felt tears burn behind his eyes.

“Too bad it wasn’t summer,” she said suddenly.

“It would be warmer, I suppose.”

“There would be fireflies.” She looked at him and brushed at his cheek. He looked down at the dampness that glistened on her fingers, unaware that tears had fallen.

“I wish I could have seen you then, discovering your stars.”

“I was barely Fili’s age and I had run away. I’m amazed you didn’t tan my hide for the fright I gave you.” Thorin said with his voice thick, and his levity fell flat.

“You returned to me. You always did. And you were so fascinated by it all. Ever so curious about the goings-on outside the mountain.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “I wish the stars held the same joy for you now, Thorin.”

“It is not your fault they don’t, amad. I’ve lost too much under them to ever love their light.” He took a shuddering breath and tightened his arms around her. “Please don’t go.” He whispered.

“It’s my time, ghivashith. I wish I could stay and be with you always. My time is at its end. The healers have done what they could. But I am very tired, Thorin. I have lived far too long, and I would like to see your brother again.”

Thorin shook and pressed his cheek against her hair. His tears fell freely as he looked out at the stars and sky as it met the ocean far off on the horizon. It felt too big out here. Too far away from all that he knew. His mother shouldn’t leave this world at the very edge of it. She deserved to be pampered and cloistered in the royal chambers of Erebor as the rightful queen.

Here, she was far too delicate. He felt like the wind could rip her from his arms at any moment. He couldn’t hide his trembling as he clutched at her, as if he were still a child at her feet.

“Promise me Thorin, you’ll find some happiness in this life. Find your One. Chase after your grass and your sunshine. Don’t give all of yourself and leave nothing behind. It might make you a great King, but you are my son, and I would wish for you a simple life, full of love and kindness.”

“Amad, no.” His voice cracked, he didn’t care. He couldn’t promise her this. Not here at the end of the world. Not if it meant she was leaving him.

“Promise me, I’ll be watching.”

He nodded against her head and kissed the top of her hair. “I promise, amad.”  

*

The winter of Fili’s fifth birthday loss returned to the line of Durin. Haldis, dowager queen, died on Durin’s Day.  The mountain mourned with their king and Durin House. Thorin and Dis raised their voices in a plaintive lament for their mother, though neither shed a tear.

The Glittering Princess was laid to rest in the tomb of the Kings, next to two empty sarcophagi, one for Thror, burned in the Dimrill Dale, and one for his father Thrain, lost to the wastes. She received full honours with the celebration feast that followed. Thorin took part, though he vacated the main hall as soon as it was no longer rude to do so.

He spent that night hiding in Fili’s room, curled up on Fili’s bed, snuggled warm against the howling wind and storms that raged.

He spent the night telling Fili stories of his mother, and of Erebor, of its gleaming halls and the palace. Of lanterns as big as a Man and some even bigger. The two of them fell asleep very late, dreaming of the Lonely Mountain, and forge fires as tall as houses.

Dis’ belly was full with a second child, and while there was hope in good measure, Durin house was never allowed to stay happy for long.

Deep in the mountain where the diamond mines were excavated, an explosion rang out and the mountains shuddered. A cave-in followed and several dwarrow were caught in the slide of stone and debris.

Vili had been among them and his broken body was quickly laid to rest. Dis took to her bed in the following weeks. Not even Fili could rouse her from her sadness. She lingered and Thorin feared she would fade and follow her One to Mahal’s Hall.

He should have known better. Three weeks to the day, she walked from her room. Her hair was shorn in mourning, her face was very pale, drawn and too thin, but she stood tall and took over their mother’s place as Thorin’s advisor.

She threw herself into the work with the same determination Thorin had had in those first years. Thorin wished he could spare her that agony. Spare her the loss of yet one more person in their life. Mahal seemed bound and determined to rid the world of the children of his eldest son, one dwarf at a time.

Tragedy never left that winter. Cave-in after cave-in struck in the deeper parts of the mountain. Something had shifted beneath them with the collapse of the diamond mine, and now the deep sections of the mountain were open to the waters. The ruby mine was next, and it filled with a terrifying surety. They were unable to collect the dead and found only traces of them scattered weeks later on the beach.

The tiny emerald mine was next, and soon after the gold mine. Within two months the Blue Mountains lost most of its income and wealth. The only mines left untouched were a small silver mine that was close to running dry, and a tin mine that was too small to offer much in work or profit.

His people were once again teetering on the precipice of poverty. They needed help, but the nearby human villages were simply not equipped to do so. Nothing nearby was equipped to help thousands of dwarrow. Thorin turned to the other clans, writing to each of them in turn, requesting aid or succor for any dwarrow they could take on.

Letters arrived in the weeks that followed, all of them full of useless advice, empty lectures about how times such as this struck all dwarrow and that the Blue Mountains would find their way again.

The only joy in the midst of it all was the birth of Dis’ second child. Healthy and wholesome, they were named Kili, and where Fili shared Vili and Frerin’s colouring, Kili shared Dis and Thorin’s. Where Fili had been a quiet and observant infant and still was, Kili squalled with all their might, using great lungfuls of air to lodge each complaint.

The only time Kili quieted was in Thorin’s arms. And Thorin found himself carrying the infant around more often than Dis in those days, handing the child over to be fed only to have them handed back, red faced and affronted that Thorin couldn’t feed them himself.  

The survey reports filtered in and each day Dis and Balin looked more aged, exhausted and heartsick. The Mountain would hold them, but they were going to start losing money and soon if new mines couldn’t be opened. The forges would be forced to go dark if they couldn’t bring in enough iron or silver. With nothing to pay the Men, they would not receive grain or meat and the dwarrow would begin once more to starve.

With each letter, Thorin felt the tether on his anger fray just a little more. When correspondence and promises became too much, he would end up in the practice field, besting every dwarrow mad enough to take him on.

Dis nearly killed him when she found out Kili had been strapped to him whilst in the practice ring. But the babe had laughed and had not been in real danger. There hadn’t been a dwarf in decades that could truly challenge him with sword or axe, not even Dwalin now, though his friend was by far the closest.

Still his efforts to save the mountain amounted to nothing and he and the others had to look at other ways of bringing money and food back to the mountain. Many started travelling to the nearby human towns, and soon spread further afield.

Watching his people leave the mountain for work that should rightly have been found within their home, eroded at something inside him. He wrote more letters to the other clans, seeking information, advice, or more hopefully, aid.

It was time to look at Erebor again.

News of the Dragon had dwindled to rumour, only the occasional sighting, and that from one caravan that spoke with another caravan that heard it from still other caravans. It was worse than a game of echo, played by the dwarflings in the mountain passes.

With each letter back, his hope dwindled just a bit more. The Firebeards and the Broadbeams were with him in spirit but did not have the dwarf power to send anyone, nor could they offer financial aid unless a definitive plan could be brought to the table. The Ironfists said much the same thing; the Stiffbeards stated they would consult with their oracles and nothing could be decided until the next new moon on Durin’s Day – another blasted five years if Thorin’s calendar was correct.

The Blacklocks and the Stonefoots responded with barely disguised pity and disgust. No help would be coming from them, not with the defeat at Azanulbizar so fresh. And they implied that perhaps the Longbeards should not tempt the Valar so. Walking across Mahal’s anvil was dangerous business.

If that weren’t enough, the letters were addressed to the Lord of Ered Luin, not King of Erebor. None of the clans currently recognized his rightful title, nor his rule. They recognized his deeds, they alluded to them by the usage of ‘Oakenshield,’ but deeds were not enough. The reclamation of Erebor was not deemed wise in the eyes of the council. They would deliberate further, until such time as the benefits to all the clans outweighed the risks involved.

The year turned and the mountain continued to lose money. The little he and his sister had managed to put away in the hall's coffers ended up being doled back out to the people for food. They didn’t have enough money to continue the repair work, and they had to close off parts of the mountain that led too close to the ruined diamond and ruby mines.

More had to be done.

“Where are you going?”

Thorin looked up from the bed to the doorway, clothes still in his hand as he took in Dis’ form shadowed by the lanterns in the hall.  He shrugged and put his belongings into a pack.

“I can’t expect my people to work away from the mountain if I’m not willing to do the same,” he said, his voice quiet, gruff.

“Do you always have to be so bleeding noble?” Dis asked. She sat down on the bed and looked at his pack critically. “Of course you do, you wouldn’t be my nadad. You don’t have to do this. No one is expecting you to go and be a smith again.”

“I can’t stay here and watch them suffer. I can’t sit by and watch as dwarrow after dwarrow leaves to collect a meagre purse, only to pay part of it in tithe so that I can continue on in luxury.”

“Luxury? Not starving is a luxury?” Dis cried. “Living in veritable caves is a luxury? I remember Erebor, nadad. I remember the marble, and furs, the warm food, and the working mines. This is not luxury, this is survival. You're not above the others just because you have a second tunic.”

He shook his head. “I need to pull my weight, and if that means becoming a smith and not a king, then that is what I will do.”

Dis tugged his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Balin and I will continue looking. We’ll find something to make them see that you are the rightful king.”

“The only thing that proves that is the Arkenstone. And it is buried under a Dragon, half a world away.” He snorted and went back to packing. “Unless you and Balin know of some secret place where another one is hidden.”

Dis hummed, and tapped her fingers against her knee.

Thorin narrowed his eyes, stopped mid-step between the bookshelf and the bed. “What are you thinking, Dis? What are you concocting?”

“Oh, well,” Dis shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “Look, there has to be some information about that blasted stone somewhere. Balin and I are going to be looking through dusty tomes anyway. Might find out something we can use.”

“I’ve heard all the stories, Dis. That is was once a star that fell from the heavens. That it is a piece of Mahal’s anvil and holds great powers for those who are true. That it’s part of the Hammer Mahal used to break us in half and it has powers to bring life back to the dead.

“I’ve read them all. I went looking for anything I could find after Frerin –“ He cut off and put his books down. “No, there is only one stone and it rests with a dragon. Whatever powers it may or may not possess, we can’t get to it to find out.”

“Oh, nadad,” Dis whispered, she stood and hugged him fiercely. “You do what you must, work where you can, and come back to us in the winters. Do you hear me? I’ll not have my children raised without their uncle. Keep your feet to bedrock and you’ll always come home to us.”

Thorin wrapped his arms around Dis and kissed her temple. “I promise to come back. If only because my cooking would likely kill me after a few months.” He tightened his hold around her and pulled back enough to press his forehead against hers. “I will see our family back to where it belongs, namad. If I have to scrape every coin together myself I will do it, and I will storm that mountain and kill a dragon with my bare hands if that’s what it takes.”

“I know you will, Thorin. I just worry that you’ll burn yourself up in the attempt long before the dragon has a chance. I would rather live a simple life, than lose you. You and the children are all I have left. Do not make me bury you.”

“I will not, Dis, you’ll see. In a few years I’ll have enough money to raise an army and take back that mountain for us. It will be our home once more, and I won’t let anyone take it from us again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abnith - Gem that is young  
> Abnith-e - my gem  
> Ghivashith - treasure that is young  
> Nadanu Kurdu-e - Child of my heart  
> inûdoy - my son
> 
> I think those are the new ones. 
> 
> Oh gods all of you are absolutely lovely. You have no idea how happy you guys make me with all of your reviews. I'm a flappy happy mess when I read them, Striving artist can attest.  
> Also! We're getting there. Chapter seven, ten more to go. This fic is a beast and I waver between elation and terror each time I post something. You will be happy to note it is finished! It requires editing and cleaning up but the big stuff should be done. *flees*


	8. A Dwarf Comes to Bag End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 2911 and a winter unlike any other has swept into the Shire, and with it an unlikely visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks once again to [Striving Artist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist) and [The Lady Zephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) for for all their help with this monster of a fic. Send them cookies and chocolate for thanks!
> 
> Brief mentions of transphobia and cissexism in this chapter, just a tiny bit in the beginning, hopefully not triggering. But I thought I should mentioning it. Thanks!

#  A Dwarf comes to Bag End

The snows came early that year. The storms started two weeks following his twenty-first birthday. They never had snows that early, and it was the talk of the Shire. The harvests had been hauled in early and had required all able-bodied hobbits to help in order to avoid a massive loss of produce.

Bilbo had spent every day at Farmer Maggot’s bringing bushels and baskets of food and grain into the storage barns along with all the tweens. It had been one of the few times he’d been allowed to do such work; the need for extra hands had outweighed the propriety of the Baggins ‘child’ doing the work of the boys. Despite his continued use of the elven medicine, and binder, the Shire had, to a one, decided that Bilbo was a girl.

No one made any particular mentions, especially not to Bilbo himself, and definitely not his mother. But the sentiment was there, in small things. Such as duties shared by the tweens. He was lumped in with the girls more often than not. His mother’s way of doing things didn’t seem to be working. But then hobbits didn’t care for brash, take-it-or-leave-it attitudes. They tolerated his mother because she was part of two very strong families. Also, she did follow certain rules. She wore dresses and did needlework, and had borne a child.

Bilbo wore men’s clothes, took _elven_ medicine, spoke Sindarin, and tried to do ‘mens’ work. So in order to be taken seriously, he had to be meek and accommodating, not speak too loudly, and never voice his opinions if they differed from the crowd. That mostly left him with a bad taste in his mouth and a headache by the end of the day. It wasn’t nearly worth it, but it was either that or true loneliness. He had a few acquaintances, and so long as he kept his mouth shut they might just be friends.

His mother hated it, he could see it in the set of her shoulders and the way she’d stab at her embroidery. But she kept her mouth shut for him, and he was forever grateful. He hoped the new year would spell some change in his life. He had proven himself to be as fast and as strong as any of the boys. He lifted and dragged and carried everything he could, and when the boys settled for a break, Bilbo had kept going.  It was only when the snows had truly started and the frosts had settled into the ground that he had finally been sent home.

Farmer Maggot had given him a bushel of mixed vegetables, and even a special basket of mushrooms for his help. Things were looking up, and Bilbo didn’t mind the snow so much if it meant things were turning around.

He sat by the window in the kitchen and watched the snow swirl in wind eddies out front. There was a thick blanket of snow and slush outside  -- all the roads had been covered for days -- and the snows still came down in steady, tiny flakes. He had a hot cup of tea in his hands, thankful to not be out in the weather today. His mother was at the counter rolling dough for scones, and his father was at the head of the table finishing second breakfast.

“You have that look, Bella,” Bungo said, not looking up from his breakfast. “What are you planning?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, husband.”

Bungo let out a short laugh. “You forget how long I’ve been married to you, darling. I know when you are concocting something.”

The smile that came across his mother’s face was dazzling, and perhaps far too private a thing for the kitchen and second breakfast.

“You have me there, my dear. The snows worry me.”

“You are perhaps the only one. Talk at the Green Dragon has been rather light, even with the difficult harvest.”

“If they continue, the whole Shire will be in dire straits,” Bella said as she took the empty plate from Bungo and kissed the top of his head. “We’ll need to make sure our food lasts, that we have enough firewood, and make sure this place is sound from drafts.” She deposited the plate into the sink and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll have to check on the healing herbs, your medicine should be fine, Bilbo dear, but we’ll need to double check. I’m sure I’m forgetting some things, but they’ll come to me.”

Bilbo started and looked away from the window. “The snows can’t be that bad, mum. The season has hardly begun. I’ve heard it’s likely to peter out before the end of the month and then it’ll just be mild.”

Bella held his gaze and raised an eyebrow in question. “Bilbo, look outside again, and tell me what you feel.”

Bilbo swallowed hard. Over the last year he had been having ‘feelings’. Intuitions that had been proven true. The feelings were nothing concrete, just a sense of something different. He had saved his cousin Rori from drowning that summer in the Brandywine. Everyone had been so happy and thrilled they had thrown a party. But late that night, he had confided in his mother that he had been dreaming of water for weeks. Of the sounds of wood snapping, and of terrible cold.

It had been luck he had been anywhere near Rori that day, or that he had been able to catch the faunt before he had fallen through the hole.

Now his mother was paying more attention to his dreams and feelings, and she wanted him to do the same. He looked out of the window again and focused on the cold and the wind that blustered and blew outside. It entered him, a chill touch that slithered down his spine and froze the breath in his lungs. He jolted in his seat and upset his teacup onto the floor. It cracked in two and Bungo jumped.

“Bella! What are you doing getting him all upset. He doesn’t need to deal with that sort of thing.”

“He does,” Bella said simply. “And he will. If it’s starting now, it’s quite likely going to continue. No point in sweeping it under the rug in the hopes it will go away.” She came over and took the broken cup from Bilbo’s hands and set it on the table. She kissed the top of his head. “What did you feel, little dove?”

“It’s not normal, mum. It’s evil. I don’t know how I know, but it feels horribly, evil.” He shook in his seat. By all that was green, he hated that. He could still feel the clawing grasp of the cold outside. “I don’t like this mum, I really don’t. Please don’t ask me to do that again.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. Bilbo felt Bella sit next to him and pull him close. “I promise, Bilbo.”

The rest of the morning was spent going through lists. His mother had lists for everything, from food stores in the pantry, to her list of healing herbs, even soaps and other necessities had a place on the list somewhere. Bilbo wasn’t sure what the meaning of half of these lists, but he added the appropriate tallies with his mother, and watched as she tutted and shook her head. Bilbo felt a heaviness invade his stomach as they continued going through the supplies.

Worry gnawed at his insides with his mother’s continued dissatisfaction. She caught his look and her gaze softened as she pressed a hand to his face.

“We have enough, dear heart. Your father and I always plan for a big winter store. But our usual hobbit-meals might have be put on hold for a time. Tighten our belts so to speak.”

“If we have enough mum, why do we have to tighten our belts? Seems rather odd to me.”

“Two reasons, Bilbo. One, we don’t know how long this winter is going to last. It could be mild after the month is done, or it could extend well into Aston. We just do not know. Our stores are plentiful right now, but they have to last. Second, there are several hobbit-families who cannot plan as rigorously as we do, and they may feel this harsh winter’s sting all the sooner.” Bella sighed. “I would hate to think of any of our friends or neighbours hurting in such a way. Wouldn’t you, little dove?”

Bilbo blinked, owlishly. Why couldn’t other families plan the way his did? Did it have something to do with not believing in the signs? He asked his mother and she shook her head, rather sadly.

“Bilbo it’s time you realize that not every hobbit is blessed as we are. Your father is from a very prestigious family, as is my own. You have been raised in wealth and privilege. Your friend, Hamfast, has not. I know you do not see the differences, and I thank the Valar that you are such a kind and generous hobbit. But you need to be aware of these things.”

“Can’t we just give them food or firewood or even money? We have so much.”

“We have so much, because your father owns the land. It’s leased to the families all around, and then they pay us rent while they use it.” Bella said as she rummaged through a section of the pantry. “Some do not have coin, so we receive goods or services in exchange.

“In ordinary and plentiful times the divide is not readily apparent. No one goes hungry, everyone is seen to, and no hobbit is expected to give more than they can rightly live without. It’s a system that has worked for centuries. The problem though, is that this year will be a year to test that. The snows have come early, the harvests couldn’t be brought in fast enough and some hobbit families are going to be feeling the pinch.” She dusted her hands on the apron and turned to look at him.

Bilbo didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “Are you saying some of my friends could starve? Is that really a possibility mum?”

“I’m afraid so, Bilbo. I might be reading too much into the snows. But I don’t like the look of it. We have a few families that tend our land that I worry about. Once these snows pass I plan on getting us all together to make sure we pool our resources. If all the communities do it, the Shire will get through this winter without an issue.”

Bilbo nodded, not quite convinced. He opened his mouth to speak when they heard a loud banging on their front door. It wasn’t made by hobbit hands, and it echoed throughout the smial.

Bilbo raced from the pantry to answer the door. Two humans stood outside and the wind buffeted behind them. “Come in. Mum, it’s Rangers.” He yelled, shutting the door behind them.

“I apologize, Mistress Baggins, we do not wish to impose upon you, but the storm has limited our choices.” Bryne said, as Bella joined them from pantry. “We found him on the East Road, his wagon had lost a wheel and the storm must have come upon him suddenly.”

Corwen and Jora carried something between them: a dwarf. He was unconscious, and grey with cold.

“Put him in front of the fire. Bilbo go get the blankets from my chest and my kit. Bungo, we’ll need tea.” Bella called out orders and the Bagginses scrambled to do as bid. In no time, the dwarf was laid in front of the fire as Bella set bricks nearby for warmth. Before little more time had passed, they had him undressed and wrapped in blankets.

Bungo took care of the Rangers, taking their wet cloaks and setting them up by the fire in the kitchen, feeding them tea and biscuits. Bilbo for his part, helped his mother with the strange dwarf at first, but once his mother had things in hand he went to setup the guest rooms and made sure the fireplaces were stocked and lit.

Despite the protests of the Baggins family, the Rangers left as soon as their cloaks were dry and they were fed, with promises to return the next time they were near.

Bilbo hovered in the doorway to the front room, transfixed. He had seen his mother work since he’d been barely up to her knee. She always carried herself so straight, so controlled when she set her mind to a task. It was no different now, though he’d never seen her take care of something more serious than a bruise or a scrape or a simple cut in some years.

“Come here, Bilbo,” she said, not lifting her head from her inspection. He hurried to her side and knelt beside her. “Cold is a dangerous thing, Bilbo. It’s deadly if it catches you unaware. We need to keep him warm, so we’ll keep this fire built high even through the night.”

“Why do you have so many blankets wrapped round his middle, mum? Aren’t you worried about his arms and legs?” He reached out and touched the dwarf’s arm and shivered at the chilled and clammy skin under his hand.

“I am, but his core is the important thing right now. We need to get his heart pumping warm blood, arms and legs will come in time. For now, you and I need to check for any signs of frost bite. Look at his legs, and tell me if you see any spots that look discoloured, either too grey, or starting to turn black. Also check for any wounds or cuts. They’re bleeding slow in cold like this, but they can still be dangerous.”

Bilbo followed his mother’s directions to the letter, pointing out anything discoloured or signs of a wound. There were a few old burns, and more scars than Bilbo had ever seen on one person. One of his toes looked wrong, but when he pointed it out to his mother, Bella said it was likely an old break.

Bungo manned the kettle and filled several hot water bottles that his mother placed around the dwarf between layers of blankets. She wrapped his head in another blanket. By the time they had finished wrapping him up, the dwarf had lost the blueish cast to his skin, and he started shivering in earnest.

“Alright, Bilbo. You keep an eye on him. I’m going to make some stew.” Bella said as she stood. “He’ll sleep for some time, but I need you to keep a close watch for any changes, all right little dove?”

“Yes, mum.”

It some hours later before they had any response other than rasped breathing. The dwarf came to with a yell, and it took all of Bilbo’s strength to hold the dwarf down as Bella spoke in soothing tones until he eventually settled and drifted back to sleep.  Bella switched out the water bottles for warmer ones and resettled the blankets so they covered the dwarf completely.

The storm continued to rage outside, and while the excitement of the stranger was palpable in the house that did not mean other duties could be ignored. Bungo returned to stopping up any drafts in the smial, and Bilbo went down to the laundry room with the dwarf’s clothing.

They were of a well-made cloth, and had once been very fine, if Bilbo was a judge of such things. But they were worn and patched in places over many years of wear. Once the clothes were laundered and dry he took the sewing basket into the main room and sat by the firelight. It was quiet work, but it kept his hands busy, and he was able to fix some of the tears.

Bilbo stopped only to eat supper, and his eyes ached when he finally put the repaired garments aside. Night had fallen and the dwarf still had not woken. His mother and father were dozing on the other side of the room. Bilbo stood and touched his father’s shoulder, wincing as the elder hobbit startled awake.

“Why don’t you take mum to bed, da? I can keep watch on our guest tonight. I’ll come get you if anything changes, I promise.”

Bungo gave Bilbo a soft smile and a nod. “Fine idea, lad,” he said and after a little urging, helped Bella to her feet and deeper into the smial.

Once they had gone, Bilbo stood in the middle of the room. The only sound was that of the crackling fire and the dwarf’s even breathing. Bilbo yawned as he built the fire back up. The wind howled outside and snows pelted the windows, and Bilbo was grateful for their warm home. He curled up in his father’s armchair and with a book in hand set about keeping watch for the night.

 

*

 

He came to by degrees. The first thing he was aware of was sound, the comfortable crackle of a fire and a soft snore. Sensation followed, an echo of deep cold, the heavy press of blankets and quilts over him, a hard floor beneath his naked back. There was an ache to his body and his feet and hands tingled with pins and needles.

This wasn’t home. It didn’t smell of home. He shot awake and sat up too fast. The room spun sickeningly. He let out a grunt of pain. He needed to find his clothes, needed to find his weapons. He was naked in a strange place, and his last memory was of the road. Of heading home before the weather turned. How he got here or where he was, he had no idea, and while important, finding his belongings topped the list.

He made a move to stand only to startle as a loud squeak erupted from the chair to his left.

“Oh you’re awake. Wait you shouldn’t try to get up too fast!”

A fussy young creature filled his vision and he glowered at him. He wasn’t about to listen at any rate and he pushed past the Halfling to search for his clothes, and his sword, no matter how much his head or body ached. He needed to find a weapon of some kind; there was no telling where his jailers had brought him.

At the very least that was his plan, but he found himself thumped unceremoniously back to the floor with a lap full of Halfling and not the faintest idea how such a small creature could have upset him so soundly. Perhaps he was more injured than he thought. He didn’t remember, he didn’t remember anything other than cold, and snow and his wagon. Surely he would have some recollection of being set upon. But this Halfling was sitting atop him and wasn’t letting him move. He growled and attempted his fiercest glare. It had sent more than a few advisors scurrying off.

It didn’t seem to work on the Halfling.

“Look, I know you’re confused, but mum said it was important you stay here and keep warm. If you wish for your clothes, I’ll fetch them for you. But you need to stay here.”

“And where is here?” He ground out, coughing against the dryness of his throat.

The Halfling was off his lap and back with a cup of water in seconds.  He eyed the glass suspiciously and stared at the Halfling, sniffing the water experimentally.  

“You’re in Bag End, in the Shire. Bilbo Baggins at your service.” He said. “Why are you sniffing the water? I assure you, it’s fresh from our well.”

“You haven’t poisoned it?”

“Dear me, why would I ever poison it? Has someone tried to do that to you before?”

Thorin continued to eye the creature and grunted once before taking an experimental sip. It was cool and fresh and it tasted cleaner than any water he had had in some months working in Bree. He finished the glass and handed it back to the Halfling – Bilbo – with a gruff thank you. “How did I get here? Did you and your kin attack me on the road? Am I free to leave?”

Once again Bilbo looked scandalized. He kept staring at Thorin with wide eyes and he didn’t blink nearly enough. Blink, Mahal damnit, stop staring at me, he thought. The creature cleared his throat and shook his head. Copper curls flicked about his head and shone in firelight.

“The Rangers of the North found you with your wagon on the East Road. Mum and the Rangers go way back and we were close by so they brought you here for healing. Mum said you were hypothermic. It took a while to warm you up.

“You are not being held here against your will. But there is a storm outside, and it is very foul. I would not risk leaving here after so recent an illness. You… you would die.”

The Halfling paled and suddenly thrust clothes into his hands. “Here is your clothing. I washed and patched them up for you. They didn’t bring anything else, sorry.”

Thorin looked down at the clothing dumbly. “Your mother knows the Rangers?”

“Yes, she used to go on loads of adventures before she married my father. She has many friends among the rangers and they visit from time to time. Are you hungry? I have some stew kept warm on the stove for you.”

The hobbit didn’t wait for him to answer and left the room. Thorin stood once again and dressed. It took more energy than he cared to admit to pull his tunic over his head. He could feel fine beads of sweat along his brow and his hands shook. Still, he looked around the room he was in. It was a front room, with a large fireplace that took up almost one wall. There was a large writing desk behind him and two smaller chairs in front of the fire. Behind him was a large window and a chessboard was set up on a small table. The loveseat was the last piece of furniture, and the room was more than large enough to handle it. There were no weapons on display, only pictures, family he assumed.

What kind of people did not have weapons? He looked out through the doorway and spotted a coatrack and what looked like an umbrella stand. Perhaps he could find a knife in the kitchen. It wasn’t ideal, but it would make him feel less naked.

Thorin walked from the room and followed the sounds into the kitchen. The hobbit let out a squeak and Thorin stumbled against the door jamb.

“You shouldn’t be moving too soon.” Was the hobbit truly nagging him? Oh Dis would get a kick out of that.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo blinked and his face pinked, delicately. “I-I’m not Master Baggins. That would be my father.”

“Ah, forgive me, Mister Baggins.”

“Here, please, have a seat. If you insist on moving around at least it’s warm in the kitchen.” Thorin was pushed into a chair at the table and handed a bowl of stew, some utensils and a steaming cup of tea. Fresh slices of bread with butter were put on the table along with a butter knife. Thorin quickly pocketed the knife and hid it in his lap. The Halfling didn’t seem to notice. He took a sip of tea and winced and set the cup down. “What is that?”

“Oh it’s mum’s remedy. It’s a lemon ginger tea, if it’s a little sour I can put some honey in it.”

“Lemon ginger? Why would anyone make a tea out of that?” He stared at the cup and stared at the contents worriedly. “It can’t be good for you.”

The hobbit laughed. “It’s very good for you. It’s good for headaches, and for colds. Add some chamomile for relaxation, or feverfew for nausea or dizziness.” He stood and brought over a small pot of honey with a wooden stick in it. “Add just a touch to taste. The honey is just as good, but it can get too sweet too fast.”

He took the small honey stick and added a bit to the tea, then tasted it again. He tasted the sweetness first, followed by the bite of the ginger. Underlying it all was the sour of the lemon, but it was more than that, it was hard to describe. It didn’t taste badly, and if the Halfling was intent on feeding him perhaps he wasn’t trying to kill him after all.

Maybe they wished to keep him alive for ransom. He would have to wait until he could speak with the halfling’s father. That would settle things in Thorin’s mind. The fact that the elder Halfling was so unconcerned about his son with a stranger was another thought that puzzled the dwarf.

Did the halflings care so little for their kin? Or was this father of his convinced of his son’s abilities and knew he could handle himself in a fight? Abilities or not, Thorin never would have left a child alone at night guarding a stranger. Fili and Kili were still very young and they had been trained since the cradle in weapons and combat and he still would not have done this to them.

He realised he was staring and dragged his gaze from the hobbit to glare at his stew. He sniffed it carefully, the warm scent of beef and fresh vegetables wafted up to him and made his mouth water. His stomach gurgled noisily in the quiet room and he took a tentative bite. Bless Mahal’s anvil it was good. It reminded him of Dis’ stews from home. He dug into the food, his hunger outweighing his suspicion for the moment. He missed Dis and the boys so very much and had been so close to seeing them. And now here he was, captured, like some novice, perhaps being held for ransom, or worse.

“You still have not told me your name,” the Halfling said suddenly.

Thorin looked up from his stew and gave his best glare. The hobbit did not appear perturbed by his open anger, in fact he straightened in the chair and gave back one of his own.

“You can glare at me all you like, Mister Dwarf, but around here it’s rude to withhold your name.”

“You don’t know it. I would have thought you would since you sent the rangers to kidnap me.”

“Oh, by all that is green. Come with me.” The hobbit stood and left the kitchen, looking back to glare at Thorin when he didn’t follow immediately. Thorin followed him to the front door where the hobbit opened it wide.

Wind blasted into the smial and with it snow and ice. A drift began in the hall and the hobbit closed the door against the wind with a grunt of effort. “Does that answer you? Can we please stop with this infuriating line of questioning? You are here because my mother is a friend of the rangers. We did not set the rangers upon you. You got your fool self stuck in the snow and had to be rescued.

“I don’t know your name, I do not know you from Eru himself. You could be King of the Dwarves for all I’m aware. Now if you insist on keeping up with this line of silliness, feel free to take a few knives from the kitchen to bed with you.” The hobbit flailed a bit, and waved his hands ineffectively.

“I apologize for being so rude, but I have had a very long day, most of it spent trying to keep you alive. If you would like I can show you your room, or if you feel safer I will bring more bedclothes for you out front. Your decision.”

Thorin was momentarily struck a silent by the diatribe. How did the creature know he was a king? He wasn’t sure he was convinced of the halfling’s innocence. Especially not now, but he seemed sincere. Time would tell, and the offer of a blade, even a kitchen knife would ease some of his discomfort. He was very tired suddenly, and his shoulders sagged as he nodded. “Thorin,” He said, finally. “My name is Thorin.”

The hobbit nodded, and he scrunched his nose in an oddly endearing gesture. “Yes, well, that’s good. I’ll show you to the guest room once you’ve finished your food.”

“Thank you, but I think I should retire now, if it is not too much trouble.”

“None at all.”

Thorin was guided down the hall, after a quick stop by the kitchen where he took a kitchen carving knife with him. The hobbit led him deeper into the smial and to the guest room he was assigned. It was clean and there was a cheery fire roaring. The bed as turned down, waiting for him. The bed wasn’t as big as the ones offered by the Inn in Bree, but it was a decent size, and his entire body ached for somewhere soft to lay his head.

He walked into the room, set the knife down on the bedside table and sat down on the bed gently.

“Sleep well, Master Thorin.” The Halfling said quietly. “If you need anything, my room is across the hall.”

Before he could answer, the door was closed and Thorin was left alone in the room. He still didn’t feel quite safe, and he had gaps in his memory that he couldn’t quite fill. He remembered the snows, he remembered trying to get home, but after the snows came his memory failed. It was little more than wind and a bone deep cold that he could still feel.

He had come very close to death, he surmised. And the Halflings and the rangers seemed to have saved his life. Why or what they planned for him he wasn’t sure. Right now he was too tired. He had a knife, pathetic and dull as it was, it would do if needed. And tomorrow he would demand some real answers. For now, the bed was wonderfully soft, the blankets thick and heavy, and the fire was warm.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally met!! I've been waiting to post this chapter for so long, I couldn't wait to get this up because finally, _finally_ get to meet. Thank you to everyone who's been reading along, your kudos and reviews are lovely and wonderful and make me so ridiculously happy I can't explain it. 
> 
> Special thanks to Calin, your questions were lovely and if anyone is interested in the magic behind the choosing stones, I've answered it in comments on the previous chapter. 
> 
> A plateful of chocolate peanut butter chip cookies for everyone!


	9. Fell Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fell winter is unkind to those in the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Chapter and so soon!! Thank [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist) for all the work!! Read their fics! Seriously, they're fantastic. Believe me, this chapter is 9500 words, it's a beast!
> 
> Canon level violence, transphobia and cissexism in this chapter. If I haven't warned for something and you feel it deserves one, let me know!

#  Fell Winter

Bilbo awoke to the sound of the wind battering against his window. The storm continued unabated, and in the quiet of the morning he could still feel the malevolence he sensed yesterday. He shuddered and quickly dressed. The floors were ice cold under his feet and he wrapped his arms around himself and left his bedroom.

The door across the hall was still closed, and he couldn’t hear any noise from the room. Their guest must still be asleep. Bilbo wasn’t sure what to make of him. He had never met a dwarf before, and he wasn’t sure how to take the one he’d currently met. The dwarf, Thorin, was paranoid to the point of thinking to leave the smial the night before, and assumed they would poison him. Bilbo couldn’t fathom it. Was this dwarves’ life so fraught with danger that a simple bowl of stew could be poisoned?

He didn’t like it. Bilbo finished his ablutions in the lavatory and then headed to the front of the smial. His mum and da were awake and the front of their home was cheery with warmth from the renewed fires.

“Morning,” He called as he entered the kitchen.

“Morning, Bilbo. How did our guest fare?” Bella asked as she sipped a steaming mug of tea.

“I don’t know mum. He appeared fine, but he was still dizzy and quite out of sorts.” At least Bilbo hoped. “I gave him some of the stew and made one of your teas for him. But,” He shrugged, “He thought I was trying to poison him mum.”

Bella winced. “You could have woken me, little dove. Dwarves are rather stubborn.”

Bilbo snorted. “Yes, I found that out when he started hiding knives up his shirt sleeve. Thought I didn’t notice that.”

“What did he want the knives for?” Bungo asked, perplexed.

“For protection, I think. He asked if we were going to ransom him.”

Bella laughed. “Oh, dear. Bilbo what happened?”

Bilbo did his best to explain the night before while he cooked up eggs and some bacon over the stove. Both his parents were rather taken aback.

“He has my carving knife in the bedroom?”

“Yes, he seemed rather keen to have something to protect himself.” Bilbo set out two plates and piled them with food, adding some of the potato pancakes his mother had on the table and a dollop of thick sour cream to the top of them. “From what I’m not sure.”

Bella stood and took one of the plates Bilbo had filled. “I’ll go check on our patient. You enjoy your breakfast.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure and he looked between his mother and his plate. Bungo stood before he could open his mouth. “Sit down and eat, Bilbo. Your mother and I will have this all sorted before you know.”

He watched them disappear into hall and he turned back to his food. He didn’t want to crowd their patient, and his parents were perfectly able to handle one dwarf. Still he hesitated. His stomach answered for him with a loud growl. He went to the cupboard and grabbed the small vial of his infusion and added a couple of drops to his eggs and dug into eat.

It was perhaps minutes later when he heard the commotion.

“What are your demands?”

That was definitely the dwarf. Bilbo rolled his eyes, of course he still thought he was a prisoner. Too good to hope that a bit of sleep might clear that away.

“Really Master Dwarf, you are not being held here against your will. We have no demands. I am merely trying to find out how you feel. You were very near death yesterday.”

Bilbo peered around the corner into the hall. His mum, da, and the dwarf were all there. Mum with her hands on her hips and da holding the plate of food, looking rather affronted.

“I will not be held here any longer. Unless you plan to stop me, I will be taking my leave.”

“You’re being awfully rude,” Bilbo said suddenly. All three of them turned to look at him. Bilbo swallowed but tugged his weskit and stepped into the hallway proper. “We are not keeping you against your will, Master Thorin. If you feel you are well and able enough to brave this storm then by all means, I will wish you the best of luck.

“But there is no need to be standing here, glaring at us as if we’ve somehow done you harm. We have offered you food, shelter, and tended your injuries. You are welcome to stay until the storm passes, or you can leave now. But as I said last night, that storm is a killer, and if you leave our smial I fear you will not be found until it all melts in the spring.” Bilbo shuddered and wobbled on his feet.

The hall was silent for several moments, and Bilbo could hear the roar of his heart echo in his ears. It sounded as if the storm and the winter were inside his head.

The dwarf didn’t speak, only turned back into his room and closed the door behind him. Tension bled from the hall with his exit and Bilbo found himself crowded by his mother.

“I’m fine mum, I’m sorry I was rude,” He said shaking off the last of the image. “Confound that dwarf!” He uttered as he went into the kitchen.

“Bilbo, you have to give him a bit of understanding.” Bella said quietly as she put the kettle on for tea. “He is in a strange place, far from home. How would you react if you found yourself thus?”

“I wouldn’t think I was being poisoned or held against my will!”

“Based on your experiences, perhaps not. You have no reason to distrust anyone.” Bella looked at him. “Perhaps our patient does.”

Bilbo felt guilt churn in his stomach. He wavered on the threshold. “I should apologize.”

“Yes, but not now. Give him some time. You were not wrong in what you said, and he needs to come to terms with what is happening. Perhaps when he has had a chance to think it over, we’ll be able to explain things properly.”

“I hope you’re right.”

*

He’d just been dressed down by a Halfling. Again. Thorin had to adjust his assumptions about the young one once more. He paced the small room, feeling trapped, caged by the howling wind outside. His bare feet were chilled by the floors, and he cursed again for not having his clothing. Or a weapon.

It had less to do with protecting himself against the hobbits in the house. Unless there were more hiding, and he couldn’t hear any others, there were only the three of them. Hardly a match for Thorin if he pushed. Was there a reason for them to have kidnapped him? If they were aware of his status perhaps they thought they might earn some coin.

He dismissed that idea. Again, there were not enough of them to keep him. He wasn’t much use as a ransom piece these days anyway. Ered Luin did not have the resources to pay for his return. His stomach rumbled loudly in the small room and his head still ached.

Dwarves rarely became ill, but it seemed the cold had been too much, even for him. He could go for a while without food, had done so in the past; it would not be a hardship for him to stay in this room until the snows ended and he was able to get to his wagon. They still had his boots. He wasn’t sure where they were but the Halfling, Bilbo, had not returned them the night before.

From what he had seen of the halflings and their large feet, boots might be a foreign concept. Even those that lived in Bree never wore shoes. The longer he stewed, the more he realized the Halfling was right. He had been rude, whether he felt his ire was justified or not. They had tended to him – so they said – they had given him a room, and had offered him more food than he had seen in weeks. Regardless, he couldn’t go out there, not yet.

When he finally opened the door, some hours later, he was no closer to a decision than before. Hiding was cowardly though, and he was no coward. He walked down the hallway, passing by not one but two large pantries that seemed to go deeper and lead perhaps to others. He stared at the food stores. Every shelf was full to bursting with supplies, many were canned or dry ingredients. The ceiling was hung full of herbs and cured meats.

Thorin had never seen so much food in one place, not since the kitchens of Erebor. For just three halfings? Perhaps he had underestimated the number that lived here.

“Are you hungry?”

Thorin Oakenshield most certainly did not jump at the soft question. He glared at Bilbo briefly before looking away, ashamed. He was acting abominably to a child. How low had he sunk?

“We’re about to have elvensies, if you would like to join us.”

“Elevensies? I’m afraid I do not know what that is.” Thorin said, but he followed the Halfling into the main room. It was the same room where he had awoken the night before. His boots were there by the fire, causing him let out an aborted sigh of relief. Better to not let the halflings know he had worried over his missing footwear. Lest they try and keep it from him, seeking to trap him.

“Oh it’s a hobbit thing,” Bilbo said, unhelpfully.

Yes of course, he assumed it to be a hobbit thing. But what was it? Thorin kept his mouth firmly shut in the hopes of further explanation.

“Usually it’s a light meal after market, not big enough for luncheon but enough to take the edge off until then.”

“Do hobbits really eat that much, Mister Baggins?” Thorin asked as he was guided to a seat.

“Traditionally Hobbits have seven meals a day,” a feminine voice said behind Bilbo. She came into the room with a plate of fresh scones still warm from the oven. Behind her came the other hobbit, the older gentlemen. He assumed them to be Mister Baggins parents. No one else came into the room so he was once again left to assume that it was only the three of them. Later, perhaps when they went to sleep Thorin would have a good look around his prison and see exactly who else lived here. Finding other exits and any potential weak areas wouldn’t go amiss either.

“Seven? But you are so small. Where do you put it all?”

“We like our comforts,” Bilbo said and took a seat nearby. “Master Thorin, I would like to apologize for my behaviour this morning.”

Thorin cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, please. It is I who should be apologizing. I have been treating you unjustly despite all you have done to try to aid me. That was thoughtless of me.”

“You have been ill, and you awoke in a strange place. You have only acted as you have seen fit, and it was not up to me to expect some kind of appreciation when you have found yourself in such a strange and perhaps frightening circumstance.”

“Really, Mister Baggins. There’s no need, ill or not, I could have comported myself with a bit more dignity.” Thorin said through gritted teeth. Why was it so hard for the hobbit to accept his apology? And frightening circumstance? He wasn’t a coward, nor a child unable to fight. He straightened and held himself taller in the chair.

The small hobbit opened his mouth to speak again but was thankfully cut off. “You’ve both apologized enough, it is done. Now let us enjoy elevensies, shall we? Tell me Master Dwarf, what brought you so near the shire? I haven’t seen a dwarf in these parts in some years.” The female hobbit asked him, and Thorin scrounged around trying to remember if any introductions had been made. He came up empty.

“Forgive me, Mistress, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. My name is Thorin. As for how I came to be so near, I was on my way home to Ered Luin when I was taken unaware by the sudden storm. I thought I had had more time, but I had been mistaken.”

“It is wonderful to meet you Master Thorin. My name is Belladonna Baggins, this is my husband Bungo. And you have met my son, Bilbo.” She served him a scone and some tea. “I haven’t been to the Blue Mountains in years. How has it been?”

Thorin’s stomach growled and he bit into one of the fresh scones. It was delicious, fresh and buttery, unlike any he had had in Bree or anywhere else for that matter. It came close to his memories of Erebor, and the shining underground city. The palace kitchens had always been well stocked the chefs had been Masters of their craft, skilled as any dwarrow. For them food sang. It seemed to be a gift shared amongst the hobbits.

“You have travelled to the Mountains? I was under the impression that hobbits never left their homes.”

“I told you last night that mum was an adventurer. Went all the way to the Grey Havens and beyond that.”

“I did a lot of travelling in my youth, Master Thorin. I did spend some time in the Blue Mountains before Bungo and I married. The dwarrow I met were very kind to my brother and I; landing on their doorstep half-starved and completely lost as we were.”

That was interesting news, and perhaps some corroborating evidence to this hobbit’s character. If he could get in touch with his sister he could do some discrete checking to find out what they had discovered. Knowing his sister, a visitor of any kind, especially of another race would have reached her ears. He didn’t remember the incident in question, though there had been years where he had been absent and unless the safety of the Hall had been in question she wouldn’t have come to him. He had questions for his sister to be sure.  

“I can’t wait to have my own adventures.” Bilbo said as he poured tea and offered it around.

“One adventure was enough my dear boy,” Bungo said, gruffly. “I do not need the repeated worry of you off gallivanting all across Middle Earth with who knows what for assistance.”  

“Bungo dear,” Bella said equanimously.

“Bella, no, I was very calm about it, but your last adventure nearly got the two of you killed. Orcs, midnight rides with elves. The letters you sent back were enough to take years off my life.” Bungo said, setting his tea cup down with a clatter. “I know Rivendell was a wonderful place and I’m sure they were very kind, but, I was alone for a year because of it. If you have to go on an adventure, wait until you’re of age at least, my boy.”

Elves, Rivendell? The more he listened the more lost he felt. He was quite sure the scholars had said that hobbits were a meek folk that preferred their own land to that of others. That they never fought and had no use for war. It was strange and curious. He had never heard of elves being helpful, his memories of a time before the dragon had faded. He remembered an elven king sending healers to Erebor to help with the injured from a cave-in of one of the diamond mines when Thorin had been very young. And he remembered watching the same king leave and do nothing to protect his kin when the dragon came.

Were the elves in Rivendell different? They seemed willing to offer help to the hobbits. He looked over at the younger hobbit who was rather red faced and clinging to his tea cup as if he wished to argue but didn’t wish to cause a scene in front of company.

“I’m sure that isn’t all that far off,” Thorin said quietly. “Better late than never as they say.”

“I don’t want to dream my life away either.” Bilbo said sullenly.

“When were you expected to arrive home, Master Thorin?” Bungo asked suddenly, changing the subject.

Thorin spared the young hobbit another glance. He seemed to have retreated a bit. He wasn’t nearly as feisty as he appeared that morning. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he supposed it was a bit of childish rebellion being sabotaged.

“I was supposed to return before the snows in October, but I had to finish a few jobs in Bree before I could set out on the road properly. My family expects me back in a few days’ time.”

Bella refilled plates and tea cups. “I fear the storms will last much longer than that. I will speak with my father and see if we can’t get a letter there faster.” She said firmly. “If not father, than one of the Rangers shall return this way and we’ll send a letter off with them.”

“Is there anything you wish me to include?” Thorin asked and bit the inside of his cheek. He had promised himself not to be too suspicious. He had been doing much better, but apparently his limit was a few minutes of awkward conversation.

“No, it is your letter Master Thorin. The writing desk has all the utensils you should need. Feel free to use whatever you wish. Sending them might have to wait until the storms pass, but we will make sure your family knows you are safe.”

“Thank you, Mistress Baggins. That is very kind of you, all of you.” He once again felt a bit of guilt, thinking the worst about these hobbits. Perhaps once he received word from his sister he could rest easy. Until then he finished his tea, borrowed the necessary writing equipment and excused himself to the room they provided to write his letters.

*

The third morning after his abrupt arrival dawned with a brittle cold light. The storm had passed, but the chill permeated the floors of the smial and it took until breakfast for the house to feel even close to warm. One of the Bounders had been by with the change of watch and Mistress Baggins handed the lad the letters and he raced off through the crunching snow.

“While the weather holds, I must go and check on the cart. If I can fix the wheel I might be able to make it back onto the road without too much trouble,” Thorin said. “If I can’t, I have to get my supplies before they’re ruined.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bilbo said.

“What?” Thorin and Bungo said in unison.

“I said I’m going with you. You’ll need another set of hands. And I had the Rangers make me a map. It’s just off the main road. Far enough that it would be better not to be alone out in this cold.” Bilbo had a look of fixed determination. Thorin doubted anyone was going to change the young hobbit’s mind. Never mind that it was rather dangerous for him to be outside in this weather, even with the storm gone.

“Bilbo, come now.” Bungo urged. “Master Thorin is perfectly capable of handling this on his own.”

“I’ll not have our guest, who’s only recently recovered, out there in the snows alone. Besides, Bilbo knows the way, they can take the sleigh to haul things back.”

Thorin cleared his throat to interject, but from the looks on Bella and Bilbo’s faces he wasn’t going to get anywhere. He finished off his tea and set the cup down. “If we’re going we better get started. Close or not the snow will slow us down.”

Outnumbered, Bungo sighed and muttered about Tookish habits, while Bilbo vanished deeper into the smial. He came back moments later as Thorin was putting on his boots and handed him a coat. “It’s one of da’s, it should fit, it might be a bit tight across the shoulders. It’ll keep you warm until we get the rest of your things.”

“My thanks,” Thorin said and put the coat on. It was ill fitting, and Bilbo was right that it stretched across his shoulders, but it closed and was thickly lined. It would suffice.

Before they could leave, Mistress Baggins wrapped them in several scarves and other knitted items and gave Bilbo a bag with supplies and some food. She also handed Thorin a wickedly sharp kitchen knife, when he asked for some kind of weapon. He tucked it into the belt on the jacket and the two headed out into the deep cold.

It was a long slog through heavy snow. The air was still, but it chilled the skin in minutes and neither spoke as they puffed their way to the exit of the Shire. Once they turned to the Great East Road, Bilbo took out the map the Rangers had left and pointed them east.

They continued on and after a mile of heavy walking they turned a bend in the road and came to a snow covered cart.  


“All right, we’ll need to dig it out and see what’s salvageable.” He huffed through the scarf covering his face.

Bilbo nodded and climbed into the back of the cart and started removing snow. Thorin busied himself with uncovering the wheels. The wagon was half trapped in a ditch with its axle resting on the slope. In order to get at the broken wheel he needed to dig out the ditch and most of the wagon on that side. The snow was heavy, thick with ice and tightly packed, it made the job even harder and he broke into a sweat very soon.

The back wheel was uncovered easily enough. The difficulty started as he tried to shovel out the front wheel. The wagon unbalanced by the edge of the ditch, the right side off the ground and shifted precariously as he continued to dig.

The wind had picked up in the meantime and Thorin hunched against the bitter chill, his focus on the shovel in his hands and the snow. He didn’t hear the creaking snap of wood, and could only make out the barest sound above the wind. One instant he was throwing snow over his shoulder, the next there was a groaning crack that rent the air and the wagon toppled over.

“Bilbo! Get out of there!”

Thorin scrambled back, but the snow trapped his knees and he fell backward as the tarp and wooden beams of the wagon crashed down. The rest of the wagon slid and Thorin let out a grunt and wuff of air.

He couldn’t see anything. The wooden beams held his arms trapped and the tarp pressed down around his head. Something heavy had landed across his middle. Thorin’s hearing was muffled by snow and he tried to draw in breath. He could move his feet but the rest of him was held fast.

“Bilbo? Can you hear me Mister Baggins? Go home if you can hear me. Run as fast as you can.”

He didn’t hear anything for a long while and he shivered against the snow. He hoped the hobbit had gotten free. If he could just get his arm loose, he could reach the knife. He dug into the snow with one hand, ignoring the chill that numbed his digits until he could wriggle his arm from under the wooden slat.

He was working on getting his other arm free when hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled. His next breath was frigid air, but it was unhindered and he gasped gratefully. He turned to look at Bilbo in surprise. “Are you Baggins in the habit of saving everyone you come across? Or am I just particularly lucky?”

Bilbo shook his head, gasping in kind. “I think you just have a penchant for finding trouble,” the hobbit said. “C’mon, I managed to secure most of your supplies before everything fell. I think it’s time we head back home. Can you walk? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Mister Baggins. Let’s leave this place before we freeze further.”

*

Weeks passed and the snows continued to fall. November changed to December and the freeze truly settled into the Shire. Thorin busied himself as best he could, at first helping around Bag End, and then hunting on days when the storms abated. Thorin was well aware of the dangers the winter presented. There were many risks because of the cold, and chiefest among them was their food supplies. Mistress Baggins had most of that well in hand, but Thorin knew that he was an unknown quantity and if he weren’t there, their food supply would last a lot longer. So he hunted every day he could, and brought home what game he caught. Sometimes it was a brace of hare, or a pheasant. Once he was lucky and caught a buck. They stocked the pantry with everything they could get from the animal and it helped assuage some of Thorin’s guilt for depending on the generosity of this family.

The nights were spent around the fire. The Baggins clan were consummate story-tellers, and Thorin slowly felt the tension leave his shoulders. They were a kind family, and his original assumptions of the softness of the race, while not completely without merit, were mitigated by the quiet strength he noted in each of them.

Late in December they heard the first of the wolves, packs of them that howled into the night. Thorin and Bungo boarded the windows after that, and sleep was a hard thing to find for any of them. News arrived late in the coming days of those caught outside and not found by morning. The Baggins were quiet and drawn with the news, and Thorin wished he could do something to help, but death had been such a part of his life that he wasn’t used to seeing a world without it. He took to practicing with his sword, and by unspoken agreement, anyone who left the smial, no matter for how long went in pairs.

Yule came and went, and during the long days trapped inside the smial, Thorin set about teaching Bilbo how to use a sword. Bilbo looked absolutely terrified and prevaricated, but Thorin would not take no for an answer, not when the only thing between the Hobbits and a wolf might be a tiny sword. He wasn’t as exacting a teacher as Dwalin, nor perhaps as kind as Balin might have been. That first week left tempers in a knot as often as it left Bilbo bruised and sore. But the young Hobbit kept coming back the next day and he progressed and showed honest improvement.

Each time they heard a howl from across the Shire, Thorin would find Bilbo practicing stances and drills. There was a grimness in the hobbit that Thorin hated, though he couldn’t place why. Better the soft creature learn to wield a sword now should the winter prove harsher and more deadly, than need it and find himself wanting.. But the necessity behind it, to see the softness replaced by steel, because danger had come on four paws and blistering winter winds; that Thorin did not care for.

By mid-January the Baggins and the Gamgee family converted a wagon to cross the snows, packed it up with all the supplies they could and the two families made their way through the shire to Tuckborough. West Farthing wasn’t that far, a day or two at most when the weather was agreeable. But with the storms and the threat of wolf attack on their heels the roads were perilous.

It took them four days to traverse the snows into the West Farthing. By afternoon they heard the first cries. An orcish yell rent the air and sent fear and panic skittering throughout the party. Thorin knew that sound; he heard it in his nightmares.

They picked up speed and pushed the ponies as fast as they dared, but all too soon, an orc crested the hill, followed by another, and yet another, and still more came. Thorin let loose an arrow, and it hit the first orc in the shoulder, but the creature kept coming. The skirmish was fraught, and he dropped his bow in favour of his sword. He yelled for the rest of them to run, to get away.

He could hold the orcs off, keep them safe.

A yell joined his own and he spared a glance to see Bilbo coming to help, the hobbit already throwing his body weight into each stab of his sword. Thorin felt a rush of anxiety suffuse him to see the small hobbit racing into the fray. Thorin couldn’t spare any more thought to him as a second orc yelled and aimed a blow at his unguarded side. He dodged, parrying the blow. The orc fell to his sword, and another joined it, bleeding noxious black onto white snow.

A lone wolf’s howl filled the valley, followed by the dense crunch of snow under its paws. Snarls sounded too loud as heavy feet landed on his back and threw him to the ground. He rolled, brought his sword up. He cleaved it into the wolf’s neck letting it fall limp upon the ground.

The fight continued until only a few orcs remained and those ran off in panic without their pack. The wolves, for their part, dragged an orc body into the tree line, content with easier prey than those with swords. Finally, the only sound in the valley was their harsh breathing. He looked over to Bilbo, noticed the tremors that ran through his hand as he gripped the sword, and saw blood staining the hobbit’s face.

Thorin felt sick. He crowded Bilbo, looming over him as he checked him for further injuries.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He yelled, anger and fear warring in his chest. “You could have been killed.”

“I-I was trying to save you! You’re not dying in snow if I can help it!” Bilbo yelled and the sword fell from his fingers, landing dully on the ground. “Not that you’re very appreciative.”

“We have to move, now. Bilbo, listen to me. We need to catch up with the others.” He stalled, then added, “Thank you.”

He didn’t wait for an answer and quickly gathered their things. Bilbo seemed to rouse himself; picked up his sword and sheathed it. Then he took some rope, tied it around the wolf’s paws and hoisted it onto his back. Not for the first time, Thorin saw the strength of hobbits, or perhaps Bilbo in particular.

They trudged through the snow and followed the tracks left by the wagon. Thorin wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the skirmish, but the grey sky had darkened to evening, brightened by the false light that comes with winter snows. The temperature was dropping fast. The two of them were covered in blood and soaked in their own sweat, which now froze to their skin. It was a hard slog and Thorin wasn’t sure how much longer they could go before they’d have to risk a fire.

“Look!” Bilbo let out a cry beside him, and Thorin glanced quickly to see if he was hurt.

He spotted a warm glow in his periphery and turned to watch as several torches came over the hill above them. A troupe of hobbits stood there and Bilbo dropped the wolf and took off at a run. Thorin took up the rear as they joined everyone on the hill. There were men and women all around, and each of them carried either a torch or a weapon, whether it be farm equipment or an antique.

It wasn’t long before they were shepherded into the Great Smials and sat in front of a large fire. A mug of warm ale was handed to him and there were so many well-wishers, Thorin could not tell you who he saw or why they thanked him.

Mistress Baggins was cleaning the wound on her son’s cheek but he did not appear to be injured further. For which Thorin was immensely grateful. The wolf’s corpse had been taken into some other part of the smial and Thorin let the bustle of hobbits crash over him as he sipped ale and tried to get feeling back into his fingers and feet.

Sometime later after the hobbits had dispersed, Thorin was left alone by the fire, save for Bilbo who had fallen asleep in the chair next to him. An old hobbit stood to Bilbo’s left, one Thorin didn’t recognise. The fire was comforting, the ale was warm and he no longer felt like a block of ice had settled in his blood.

“I owe you my thanks,” The hobbit said, startling Thorin. “You’ve been a very good friend of the Baggins family since your arrival, and that alone would be enough. But you also saved my grandson.  For which I will forever be in your debt.”

Thorin stared at the hobbit for pregnant second and scrambled to his feet to offer a bow. “My Lord, forgive me.”  Years of protocol came back with a vengeance, and he cursed himself for not realizing his lapse. The Thain laughed and shook his head, waving him off.

“Oh, there will be none of that my lad. I understand you dwarves have a differing view on these things. But you’re in the Shire now. I wouldn’t expect that sort of nonsense in the first place, but even less so now that you’ve saved part of my family. And my favourite part, if an old hobbit is allowed to admit such things.”

Thorin shook his head. “Honestly, I did nothing. Bilbo stood his ground, and fought beside me. He is one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.” He swallowed around the guilt that bubbled in his throat at the admission and he couldn’t help but steal a glimpse of the cut on the young hobbit’s face.

“I have no doubt that Bilbo is a brave lad. But it is by your doing that he was able to handle a sword. And you sent the rest of family ahead out of harm’s way. Whether you wish to accept it or not, it is through your action that my daughter and her family are safe within these walls this night. You will always be welcome within our home, Thorin Oakenshield.  You will always be known as a hobbit-friend.”

Thorin sat and stared into the fire. He managed a gruff thank you and another bow, but the Thain shook his head and with another smile left him alone by the fire. It was much later when he managed to find his bed, and sleep claimed him readily, content and safe as he was below the roof of the Great smials.

*

The Great smial became home to many hobbits in the weeks that followed. Bilbo and his cousins were pressed into service, helping tend the new families as they arrived. Bilbo often found himself helping his mother as she tended to the injured and ill. He and Thorin hadn’t had much of a chance to speak since the incident in the snows. They had both been too busy. Bilbo’s grandfather had taken a liking to the dwarf and the two of them were often found sharing a pipe and talking late into the evening. During the days when Bilbo could spare a minute, Thorin was in one of the larger rooms training the Bounders. He was showing them basic fighting technique, the same as he had done with Bilbo in those first weeks.

He would have loved to join in with them, but he was not allowed to. Hopefully that would change, especially since the hobbits in the Great Smial had taken to referring to him as mister, since his fight with the orcs. He could still smell orc blood mixed with the acrid, frozen scent of winter. So he kept himself busy.

Very busy.

Despite his mother’s best efforts illness came to the Great Smial. It came in like a thief and settled over the place in a hot thick blanket. Very few were lucky enough to be unaffected. His mum had taken over in truth once the spread of the illness had made itself known. She commandeered several large rooms away from the main areas and had cots set up. Washing stations were set upby each door and she made herbal infusions and teas as fast as she could.

Bilbo watched it all and followed her around, taking her cues and tending to each of the sick in turn. The ones most affected were the young and the elderly hobbits. It attacked their lungs and left them hacking and coughing and unable to find rest. Poultices were made to draw the illness out, and it worked for some.

But many died.

Each night Bilbo would fall asleep exhausted, only to be woken by nightmares. He couldn’t bring them to his mother, he was getting too old for that now. So he would sit in his bed and stare at the banked coals until his eyes drooped and he could fall asleep without worrying about more dreams plaguing him.

He didn’t have anyone to talk to. The Great Smial was wall to wall noise most of the day with hobbits coming in and out as they tried to rescue others still stuck in their homes. Sometimes the bounders returned with another hobbit family. Other times they only had tales of another broken door. Another empty smial. Blood on the front stoop.

The Great Smial was quiet after those discoveries. Everyone went about their business weighed down by another loss. Most were detached from Bilbo, fourth and fifth cousins at most, but loss on this scale was not something anyone was used to.

Thorin seemed to rally. His bearing became taller, his presence more forceful. Bilbo had no idea what was going on in the dwarrow’s mind, but he seemed well acquainted with loss on this scale. Bilbo felt a pang in his heart at the thought. He watched as Thorin helped with the Shirrif’s and the bounders. Spoke with the mayor and with the Old Took with equal ease.

Thorin became a rallying point for the hobbits. In fact both he and Thorin had as news spread of Bilbo’s part in the wolf and orc attack. The younger hobbits had taken to following them both around and asking for stories of the fight and then of the wagon on the east road. Bilbo found himself talking about more than just that. He was also asked about his trip to Rivendell, and the young hobbits clung to his every word.

Bilbo felt as if he had become a bit of a celebrity in the Great Smial and he loved the attention the younger hobbits gave him. Eager for a good story.

He had gotten so wrapped up in telling his stories he didn’t notice at first when his father stopped showing up at supper. Meals were sporadic and he assumed his da was with his mum. That was not the case and it wasn’t until some hours later that he discovered his mother sitting on the side of their bed, her hand on Bungo’s forehead as she felt for fever.

The weeks after were brutal.

Bilbo stuck close to his mother, fearing the worst and feeling guilty for not noticing sooner. He ran errands for her during the day, collecting herbs from the greenhouses out back, or bringing hot broth from the kitchens.

At times it looked like Bungo would rally, he’d cough and hack, but he’d joke and grouse in equal measure. Mum kept the visitors away, and Bungo was never moved into the quarantine room, he stayed in his own room where Bella and Bilbo could watch over him more closely. Days continued to trudge on and the bad news outside the smial was compounded by Bungo’s lingering illness. His father just couldn’t seem to shake whatever had taken hold of him.

He couldn’t get out of bed anymore, and it took both Bilbo and his mum to make sure Bungo would eat and take his medicine. His fever got worse and he became delirious. He was restless, constantly restless, fighting imaginary creatures in his fitful sleep. Bilbo didn’t know what to do to help. He followed his mother’s directions, gave him the broth or tea whenever he could. He changed the poultices and reapplied them. But it wasn’t working.

Nothing seemed to work.

He turned to his mother, she always knew what to do and the right thing to say. Not this time. She looked drawn, pinched, and so very tired. When had his mother become so tired? Why wasn’t she bullying his father into getting up and moving around?

She was so gentle with his father, so careful, as if he was fragile and could break at any moment. That wasn’t right. She should be picking on him, calling him lazy bones and pushing him from his bed and into a chair to move around. She wasn’t doing any of those things. She was wiping his brow with a cool cloth and whispering to him. He never answered her back.

“It’s all right, my love. There, that will make you more comfortable. You always did hate when the blankets trapped your feet.

“You remember the first day you gave me flowers? My wonderful husband, such bouquets. Your proposal bouquet was the talk of the Shire for weeks. And what did I do? I ran away. You called me brave and wondrous and your true love, and I ran from it. I wasted so much time. I hurt you so much. How did you ever forgive me?”

He still never answered, Bilbo wanted to say something to remind her he was still in the room, or just that he could hear these private confessions. But his mother didn’t pay attention to him. He stayed in the chair across the way, quiet. He never uttered a word. His mother continued to whisper and care for his father. Bungo’s breathing rattled from his chest, and he never opened his eyes, he barely moved on the bed.

Bilbo shook in his chair, unable to get closer. He hugged his knees against his chest and bit his lip to stifle sound. The space between each rattled breath grew by seconds, then minutes. His mother’s punctuated and hiccupped breathing was the only thing in the room.

She still spoke, whispered her love again and again. Begged him not to go, begged him to hold on just a bit longer. They had sent word to Gandalf and he would know what to do. His father never answered, and the space between breaths continued to grow. He watched his father’s chest, stared at it, willing it to rise again, willing him to continue on.

A horribly fragile sound rent the air and he pulled his gaze from his father to see his mother… break.

She collapsed to the floor beside the bed and unleashed a horribly broken sound. Bilbo had never heard such a noise come from anyone in all his life, and he knew it would haunt him and chase him in the dark for the rest of his days.

*

Eventually, Thorin sought out Bilbo. The hobbit had not been seen since the announcement, and Thorin could not find him by the time night fell, so he returned to his own bedroom. The fire was out and the cold permeated the room enough to let his breath hang in the air. At first Thorin couldn’t see anything in the gloom, his focus was on getting the fire started.

Then as the wood caught, and light filled the room, he turned to see a shadow on his bed. Bilbo was there, tucked against the pillows, his arms wrapped around his legs as if to keep some warmth in. Thorin sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged one of the blankets over the hobbit. The movement was enough to startle Bilbo and he sat up with a gasp and scrubbed at his eyes.

“So-sorry. I just couldn’t be out there . . .  I – I – I couldn’t-“

“It’s fine, Bilbo. You don’t need to explain, I understand.”

Bilbo sat on the bed, not looking at anything, and Thorin sat with him. He offered nothing more than his presence. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional sniff from Bilbo.

“I’m a coward. I should be out there with mum,” Bilbo finally said after long moments. “But I don’t think I can be strong enough for her. She’s changed so much since da got sick.”

Thorin sighed and shook his head. “You will be strong enough for her, Bilbo. You faced a pack of orcs less than a month ago. You can handle this. Though this pain goes far deeper. You are not a coward, not for coming in here.” He gave the hobbit a small smile. “Should you need some quiet, this room will always be available. I promise,” Thorin said softly. He let out a grunt in surprise as Bilbo grabbed him in a quick tight hug.

“Thank you,” The hobbit whispered and slipped off the bed on silent feet. “I had better go check on her.”

Thorin nodded. “Goodnight Bilbo. Though it counts for little, I’m very sorry.”

Bilbo nodded and his eyes were very bright in the firelight, but the tears did not fall. He said no more as he left Thorin’s room. It was some time much later before Thorin could find his rest, haunted as he was by his own losses.

*

Bilbo found himself hiding in Thorin’s rooms more and more. During the day he pushed through his own grief and focused on those around him. He told stories to the faunts to keep them entertained and to keep his mind from the darkness that pervaded the Smial.

Bilbo felt selfish and cowardly by turns. He couldn’t cry. No matter how much he wanted to he just couldn’t. He felt numb, and he felt angry at the other hobbits. They all walked around with stiff lips and pinched features. The grief was all consuming. It clung to the air. But no one, save his mother, seemed to show any outward signs of it. She was fading. There were whispers from other hobbits as they looked on his mother with kind, sorrowful eyes.

He wanted to scream at them. _She just needed time. Give her some time. She will rally. She had to_. In daylight he did everything he could to help her. He would fetch anything she needed, just so long as she kept moving. He would urge her to eat. He never let her forget a meal.

His entire focus was on making sure she made it through one more day. Lasted one more hour. He needed to disprove the rumours from the others. His aunt Mirabella took him aside one morning, trying to prepare him for the ‘inevitable’.

“Bilbo, darling, you are so good to her, and you’ve already suffered so.”

He held up a hand. “Aunt Mira, please, she’ll be fine. She loved father very much, she just needs time.”

She hugged him then as best as she could with her pregnant belly. “You are such a strong boy, Bilbo. But you need to take care of yourself as well. If you need anything, please, come see me. Brandy Hall will always be a home to you.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise. And mum will be okay. Once the snows clear we’ll go back home. That’s all she needs.”

He left his aunt in the hall then, fled back to his duties.

At night when the smial was quiet, he would put his mother to bed and watch over her until he was sure she slept. Then he would go to Thorin.

Thorin’s room was warm and inviting, the fire was high and he never pushed for conversation. He never seemed to require anything of Bilbo, just offered his presence. He didn’t say things about his mother’s failing health. He didn’t presume to warn Bilbo as his family seemed bent on doing.

Here in the small, cozy bedroom, Bilbo could pretend that his mother was fine, just resting, and he was talking with a friend. Soon the conversations started. Childhood things, happier times. Thorin spoke of fireflies and high mountains. Cities, whole cities that lived underground. He spoke of one beautiful shining city with such love, Bilbo could picture it in his head.

Bilbo spoke of running through the forests and chasing butterflies. He spoke of his adventures in Rivendell, how beautiful their city was, and how kind Elrond had been, how helpful. He told Thorin about the raid on the wine-cellar, though he never mentioned finding Glorfindel and Erestor. That discovery still left him blushing with too many questions.

They spoke of things that had nothing to do with the fear and cold. Nothing to do with the loss of his father, or his mother’s failing health. It was as if Thorin knew, recognized the pain for what it was. As if he had gone through something similar. They never spoke of Thorin’s family; he didn’t know if his friend had suffered loss or heartache, but he thought so.

But the kindness, the understanding Thorin seemed to offer during their conversations spoke to loss. Bilbo never asked, didn’t want to break the spell they had woven in their late night discussions. Another thing he felt cowardly for. Despite Thorin’s assurances that he was not a coward, Bilbo knew better. He couldn’t cry, he couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t face the loss of his father or the ever present fear he would lose his mother.

He was more scared about losing his mother than having lost his father. What kind of son was he? He loved his father. Loved him very much. But he couldn’t cry for him. His eyes remained stubbornly dry. His heart ached, and he ran around the smial keeping himself as busy as he could so he could collapse at night without dreams.

*

The work around the Great Smial was getting harder each day. Bilbo felt run down with it. He knew the signs of illness, knew to watch for fever. And he was free of those symptoms, but each day was getting harder nonetheless. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. He found himself sitting in small alcoves away from everyone just trying to catch his breath before he raced off to another activity.

“Are you alright, cousin?”

Bilbo started from his hiding place, gasping for breath. “I. . . I’m fine, Rori.” He lied. Today was the worst day by far. It had been going on for a week now, and showed no signs of getting better. But he couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t go to his mum, she was barely making it through the day as it was. He couldn’t worry her. He was keeping a watch on his health, he would manage.

“I don’t think so. You look right pale.” Rori got closer, as if he was inspecting him.

Bilbo liked the little faunt, he was a sweet boy, but he was nosy like all Brandybucks. Bilbo stood to prove a point, but his vision narrowed and he had to cling to the wall to stay upright. Rori ran off before Bilbo could stop him. And he fell back into the seat, out of breath.

Seconds or perhaps minutes later, he wasn’t sure which, he heard footsteps race through the hall. Mister Thorin was there with his mother, and he felt large hands hoist him up. He tried to tell them to stop, that he was all right, that he could walk, but he couldn’t get enough breath into his lungs. Why was it so bad now? Valar, he couldn’t get sick, he couldn’t do that to his mother.

He felt Thorin place him on a bed, heard muffled voices and a door shutting. His mother remained, and she closed the distance to the bed and sat down to check his forehead for fever.

“You’re not feverish, but you’ve got yourself into a lather, and you can’t catch your breath. Why didn’t you come to me, when you started feeling poorly?”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” he managed through slow pained breaths.

“Didn’t want to worry me? And you getting sick and not knowing till it’s too late? That would have been better?” Bella shook her head. “Bedrest for you. I’ll help you into your pajamas and then take a listen to that chest of yours.”

Bilbo nodded weakly, too tired to feel guilty and sat up with his mother’s help. She helped tug his shirt off when he couldn’t get it over his head. And he had to lay back to catch his breath again before he finished undressing.

“Bilbo Baggins, how long have you been wearing that binder?”

He looked down at the item in question and shrugged. “Can’t remember. It’s been rather busy around here.”

He didn’t finish before his mother tugged on the hem and helped get him out of it. His chest hurt, as his lungs expanded fully. There were indents in flesh from the seams, and his breasts tingled, numb.

“Bilbo, Elrond told you not to over wear them. They’re dangerous if you wear them improperly!” She looked him over, and listened to his chest, angrily denouncing the binder and muttering about young hobbits not following directions.  

“Mum, you don’t understand. I have to wear it. They’re finally call me Mister. Finally. They’re not sniggering anymore. I can’t go back to that, mum.” He shook, he just couldn’t go back to the way it was before. Ever since the Orc attack they’d started treating him as a boy. He couldn’t go back to being thought of as a girl.

“If a flat chest is the only way they’ll accept you, then hang the lot of them. You are my son. And you will listen to me. You will follow Elrond’s instructions. They’re for your health, you understand, Bilbo?”

He nodded, even as the tears continued to fall.

“Don’t you worry about the others out there. I’ll keep them in line. If you’ll let me, I’ll get my sisters involved, between the three of us, there won’t be a rumour left to survive.”

He sniffled. “How. How do you know that’ll work? How do you know they won’t laugh and tell you to just put me in a skirt and be done with it?”

She kissed the top of his head. “Because they are my sisters, and they have watched you grow as I have. Because they love you, very much. And because we are mothers, and we protect our children. It is up to you. We follow your lead on this, it’s time I start treating you like the grown hobbit you’re becoming.”

Weak as he felt, he wrapped his arms tightly around her. In that moment she was every bit of his mum again. Maybe that meant things were getting better. He prayed to any Valar who would listen to a hobbit that it was true, and she would be okay.

*

He agreed, though part of him was terrified. It had been just him and his parents for so long. There had always been rumour, especially when he had started puberty. But it had been just that. By confiding in his aunts, he was confirming all the rumours that were around.

And yet, nothing catastrophic occurred. Nothing happened. They hugged him, made a point of calling him their nephew, and then went about snuffing out any hint of rumour that might have gotten started. There were too many families in the great smial that year. Through horrible circumstance of that winter, Bilbo’s secret remained just that. Everyone else was too busy trying to keep food on the table, to worry about a boy hobbit with a rather soft chest. Even their dwarf friend seemed not to have noticed.  

Three weeks following ‘the incident’, Gandalf arrived. Too late to save many hobbits. Too late for his father.

The Rangers arrived with him, and they brought food and medical supplies. In days, they had driven the orcs and wolves from the Shire. His mother had rallied some in the last three weeks, but her hair had lost its shine, her eyes were no longer bright.

She had stopped smiling.

Bilbo knew it wasn’t Gandalf’s fault, yet he blamed him anyway. Felt bad for it in equal measure. He avoided the wizard, and made a point to go about his duties perfectly. And he helped with the relief efforts as the snows finally, finally, began to melt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told ya, it's a beast. Love all your reviews! Thank you everyone!!


	10. Growing Up is Hard to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing up is hard sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Chapter!
> 
> [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist) read her fics, and send her love. She had to put up with a lot of 'caravan's' in the last chapter.

**Growing up is Hard to do**

It was a bright and sunny day in early April when they buried his father. The snows and frost had receded enough that they could have a proper hobbit funeral and give Bungo Baggins back to the soil. The hot houses and greenhouses that hadn’t failed that winter were raided for every available flower and most of the Shire came to pay their respects.

When the snows started to melt, Bilbo knew Thorin would be on his way soon. Knew it with a kind of dread he hadn’t been expecting. There was something about the dwarf that had come to live with them that winter, something honest, and refreshing, and kind. He was gruff, and didn’t smile often, but he could be patient, and he was very strong. Part of Bilbo felt that if Thorin left, his own strength would leave with him.

Thorin stayed until the funeral, for which Bilbo was desperately grateful. He didn’t say it,didn’t have the words to say it, really. He stood at his mother’s other side, and the two of the held her hands, holding her up as much as offering support. It seemed fitting that when it came time to lay their flowers down, Thorin had chosen the Gladiolus. Bilbo wasn’t sure if Thorin knew the meaning, but it was appropriate. For Bilbo and his mother, it could have been nothing else other than Hydrangea.

Bilbo still didn’t cry. Not even when they left the burial mound, and returned home to Bag End,dusty and hollow from being left vacant for so long. He made his mother comfortable in the bedroom so she could sleep. There was nothing left to be done after the burial, no great meals or wakes to be held. So many Hobbits had died during that winter there were too many .

He stood, rooted to the floor in the entrance hall and stared into the living room. The game Thorin and his father had been playing was still waiting. And the writing desk still held the last thing his father had been planning: some expansion of Bag End come summer.

Bilbo started as a hand touched his and he looked up into Thorin’s eyes. The skin at the corners of the dwarf’s eyes crinkled together and Thorin had a look of such softness about him. Bilbo thought he saw regret there too. But that was a fanciful notion, and he put it out of his head with a quick blink.

“You are on your way then,” He said.

“I am.”

“I don’t know how I could ever repay you, for all the help you’ve been, Master Oakenshield.”

“You saved my life, Master Baggins. On more than one occasion. You and your family need not repay me anything. I owe you a great deal.”

“Yes, well.” Bilbo cleared his throat and he could feel the tips of his ears heating. “Bag End will always be open to you, if you’re ever passing this way again.”

Thorin smiled. A real smile, and Bilbo felt his heart leap. Oh confound it. Not the time, not the place, he thought ruthlessly. But oh, that smile. He couldn’t help but return one, though his was, perhaps, a bit too watery.

“Thank you, Master Baggins. Farewell.”

Thorin left, shutting the door behind him as he went.

A heaviness settled in the house, and it took Bilbo a long time before he was able to put one foot in front of the other and move about the house. He busied himself with cleaning and dusting, scrubbing out the pantries and washing the floors. He removed the boards from the windows and took the curtains down along with all the linens and laundered them. There was still a crispness to the air, but the sun was out and he hung everything on the line behind the house, until his fingers protested from the wet and the cold.

Finally when the sun set and the beds were remade and there was nothing left to occupy him, Bilbo found himself in his father’s armchair with a cup of tea in his hands. He sat and stared at the fire and his tea grew cold, as one by one, the tears finally slipped free. The weight around his heart was too much to bear alone. He shut his eyes but still the tears came and he let out a quiet, pained moan.

Bilbo sat and cried until his head and chest ached with it and his eyes burned, and only once the had fire died did he seek any solace in sleep.

 

*

 

There was much to do in Bag End and Bilbo spent many days learning what was required of him as the head of Bag End. He collected rent, and wrote so much correspondence his hand cramped awfully at night. He wasn’t nearly as eloquent as his father, but he had a fair hand. In those first months there was some difficulty, particularly with the old set, the hobbits so firmly set in their ways. They patted his hand and looked at him with barely disguised pity. He couldn’t tell if they pitied him for his loss and sudden responsibility, or his insistence on men’s clothes. Either way he hated it. But he swallowed down his anger and if his smile became a bit more brittle, it was there all the same.

He was a Baggins, and he would not let his father down. And most certainly he would not let his mother down. Bella lingered. That was the best Bilbo could say really. She woke and took very little sup. She slept most of the day either in bed, or out by the garden. At nights she wandered the house, more ghost than hobbit.

He would read to her, sing her songs, or crochet some knickknack for her to make her smile, if only a little. Sometime in the middle of Afterlithe, Bilbo and his mother were sitting in the garden. The sun was high in the air, and the sky was a brilliant blue. There was a light breeze and the scent of flowers was heavy around them. Bella was cosseted up in a blanket despite the warmth, with a bonnet on her head. Her once dark tresses had greyed since spring, and the lines around her eyes and mouth had grown more pronounced. She never did put the weight back on that she had lost during the winter.

“I miss the dwarf,” she said suddenly.

“What?” Bilbo looked up from the mail in his hands. “What brought that about?”

“The gladiolus,” Bella said, pointing to the garden. “And perhaps the sky. You miss him too. Do not deny it, my boy. Master Oakenshield became a friend of yours.”

Bilbo gave a noncommittal noise and looked back at the correspondence in his hands. “I do not deny that Master Oakenshield is a friend, mother. I was just wondering what caused you to remark about missing him.”

Bella sighed. “The two of you saved our lives, Bilbo. And do not give me that look. Had it not been for Master Oakenshield, I fear we would have been much worse off in the end. We never did repay him for that kindness.”

Bilbo set the letters aside. “And what would you like to do to repay him? He’s back in the Blue Mountains now. Or off in Bree, or wherever he goes to do business as a smith. He has probably forgotten all about his little adventure in the Shire.”

“I doubt that. But even if it is true, we should do something. It will keep me busy. Humour your mother, Bilbo. Do you have any thoughts on how we could repay him?”

He looked down at his hands and chewed on his lip, lost in thought for a moment. How could you repay a dwarf, what could they want? All his books told him that they only appreciated metals and gems. And while that might be true to some degree, what he had gleaned from Thorin was that it was the metal or gem itself, but the work and craft behind it. And since neither his mother nor he could work with any metal or gems that left him rather stumped. Except, there was one possibility.

“He didn’t have a coat,” Bilbo said finally. “First, when the rangers came I thought the coat had been lost or damaged. But when we went to retrieve his items, most of his clothing had been salvageable, but he didn’t have a coat.”

“I don’t think he would be able to wear a hobbit coat, Bilbo,” Bella said. “We could speak with Bolgers, find out if they know anything about dwarven styles.”

“It would have to be blue. He seems to favour that colour, and something thick for travelling. I think the Old Took still has the pelt from the wolf Thorin killed. That could be used for the collar.”

“Perfect. Hand me some paper my dear, I will write to your aunt Belba and see about that cloth, and if Rudigar knows anything of the Dwarven styles.” Bella sat up and squared her shoulders, and Bilbo felt a sting behind his eyes. He rushed back into the house to collect the writing materials and a lap desk. It might take some of her strength today to write the letter, but it was a welcome sight to see some of that fire in his mother again. Even if it was over something as simple as a coat for a friend.

 

*

 

_2nd Rethe, S.R. 1313_   
_To: Thorin Oakenshield of Ered Luin_   
_From: Bilbo Baggins, Bag End, The Shire_

__

_It is with the deepest regret that we inform you of the untimely passing of Mistress Belladonna Baggins nee Took, late of the Shire. She is predeceased by her husband, and former head of the Baggins family, Bungo Baggins. Her son and heir is now head of the family and wishes to offer condolences to those who knew her._

_Heartfelt thanks are offered to you once again, Master Oakenshield, for all that you have done for the family._

_Yours,_

_Bilbo Baggins_

_5th Foreyule, S.R. 1312_   
_To: Thorin Oakenshield of Ered Luin_   
_From: Belladonna Baggins, Bag End of the Shire_

_Greetings, Master Oakenshield,_

_I write to you, because my son, bless him, will not. Not because he doesn’t have anything to tell you, but rather because he has it firmly stuck in his mind that as Head of the Family any and all fancies should be put aside. Unfortunately, ‘fancies’ in my son’s view now seems to include friendships._

_I know your time with us here in the Shire was under rather unfortunate circumstance, but know that you are well thought of here, and fondly remembered by my family. My father is still regaling all who will listen of your first meeting, blood and wolf bits in your hair as you tried to defend my son from as he put it a ‘mob of frightened hobbits with farm gear’._

_Bilbo would fuss, but I should mention that he misses you terribly. A mother knows such things, Master Oakenshield. Whether or not you are aware of this, my son is a quiet young man, and does not have many friendships. Yours is perhaps his only one. Which brings me to the second reason I am writing, and I fear that is a very selfish reason._

_I am dying, Master Oakenshield. And it will not be long now. I will see the New Year, and I hope to see spring once more. But that is more hope than anything else. Very soon my son will be alone. And while he has family in abundance, they do not understand his gentle spirit, nor his need for bigger things and the wider world. I would very much like for you two to continue your friendship._

_As such I have made inquiries through my father, and we have secured you a smithy. It has long been in disuse and I fear there is more dust than anything of merit to it as of the present time. But if you are so inclined, it is yours for the asking. The deed is included with this letter. Have no fear, Master Oakenshield. If you consider this too much or too forward, think no more of it. Only think of it as the meddling of an old woman, with more heart than sense. After all, my planner left me, and I am therefore only heart, and I fear it is a very fragile thing. Easily swept up in the whimsy of reducing the burden of a true friend, and my son._

_Enclosed you will also find a token of our affection. I do so hope it fits. Bilbo chose the colour, he does have a fine eye for that sort of thing._

_Kindest Regards,_

_Belladonna Baggins_

 

*

 

He had not heard anything from the Shire in some months, and he had been in Bree for most of that time. He had worked from May to November and risked snows yet again getting home. But he made it, and the extra time he had put in had been a boon to his pocket and thus to his family. It wasn’t until he was in Ered Luin that he had begun to think on the Shire, and the Baggins family. Still, he was hesitant to write, even if the invitation had all but been given. Dis was convinced he was sulking, which he wasn’t, but that was beside the point. His sister would not be persuaded otherwise.

Even so, he was very glad to spend the winter with the boys, and even Dis. It wasn’t until the snows had past and the roads began to clear in early February that any mail could get through, and for the first time in several decades rangers came to the their settlement carrying letters and several packages.

The Old Took had corresponded, sent him a barrel of pipe weed along with a barrel of his finest ale. The letter from Mistress Baggins arrived along with one from Bilbo, and one more package.

Unfortunately, Thorin read the letters out of order, and had torn into Bilbo’s not sure what he had been hoping to read. The terse contents and obvious watermarks on the paper were a testament to the young hobbits’ pain.

With a profound sadness, he read Mistress Baggin’s letter, a first time, and then a second. Unable to believe the contents therein. His own forge, should he choose to take it. It was closer by far than Bree, within a few days journey of Ered Luin, with the complete backing of the Thain himself. He didn’t deserve such kindness.

Dis had been waiting on tenterhooks, and when he did not reach for the other package she took the decision from him and opened it herself.

“Oh my.”

Thorin looked up as she unfurled the coat. It was a deep blue, with a shifting subtle pattern to the fabric, lined with white fur along the collar and cuffs. Thorin was bullied from the chair by the fire and dressed as if a child. Even he had to admit to being too stunned to protest. He had never had a coat that fit quite so well, not since Erebor.

“A coat, and a forge. Your luck is changing, nadad,” Dis said, and there was such fondness in her eyes all he could do was blush and hide behind his hair.

“I might be able to accept the coat, but the forge...Dis, it’s too much.”

“However you feel, Thorin, they obviously do not share that belief. From what little you’ve told me, and what little I was able to glean from the letters, you saved part of the royal family. If the situation were reversed, and they had saved, your nephews and myself. What would you feel was proper recompense for that?”

“They saved me as much as I saved them, namad,” he said and he looked down at the letters again. “But, the forge in Bree is getting to be too much to maintain, the rent is getting higher with each year I go back. And to have a chance to set some more money aside. . . “

Thorin sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I have to go back and pay my respects. Mistress Baggins was a woman of great character. I only knew her a short time, but I believe you two would have gotten along quite well. I will not dismiss this out of hand, and if the smithy is in decent repair then perhaps.”

“Stubborn, Dwarf,” Dis chided. “You do what you need to do. We will be fine either way.  You should start packing. You need to pay your respects, and if you’re going to inspect this new forge before going to Bree you’re going to need the time.”

 

*

 

Three days later, Thorin was on the road toward the Shire. The hills were still covered in patchy snow, but green could be spotted, and the first flowers of spring were beginning to bloom. The air was fresh and crisp and hobbits lined the road despite the spring muck. They were cheery and many waved or said a bright good morning. Some stared and several children pointed and followed his cart.

“Master Dwarf, are you lost?”

Thorin halted the ponies and looked around for the voice. It came from the field to his left, a young boy stood in front of a gathered crowd of young hobbits. He looked vaguely familiar, Thorin couldn’t place him. And he wasn’t lost. Not really, he just needed to find a familiar landmark, then he could orient himself. Last time he’d seen any of the Shire it had been under so much snow, it was no wonder he was a bit turned around.

The young hobbits jumped and a few of them let out squeaks. Dis was going to have his head for scaring children again. He didn’t mean it this time. Softening his expression he nodded. “Yes, I believe I am, Master Hobbit. Would you care to give me directions?”

“Aye, sir!” The young hobbit had spunk. He clambered up into the seat next to Thorin and settled himself. “I’m Rorimac Brandybuck, are you my Cousin Bilbo’s dwarf friend?”

A cousin of Bilbo’s, well that was fortunate luck. He smiled. “Well met Master Brandybuck. I am Thorin Oakenshield, and yes, I am Master Baggins Dwarf friend.”

“I thought I recognized you. Mum and I were at the great Smial last winter. She was busy having my brother Dodinas at the time so I had to look after the little ones. Are you going to see Bilbo? He’s at Bag End right now. Mum and Grandda are with him. That’s why I’m here, otherwise I would be in Buckland, and you’d have never found your way. Take a left when we hit the next bend. That’ll set you to rights.”

Thorin followed the hobbit’s directions, and hid a smile as the little one chattered endlessly. Rorimac reminded him of Fili and he was glad to note that the Shire seemed to be recovering from the grueling year before. In a few minutes Thorin spotted the Inn, and the market and wended through Hobbiton proper.

“There you go, that road up there leads to Bag Shot Row, and at the top is Bag End. I’m glad you’re here Master Oakenshield, cousin Bilbo has been mighty sad since his mum died. You were there when uncle Bungo died. I remember, but I was too young to go to the funeral.”

“You are awfully well informed, Master Brandybuck,” Thorin said. “I thank you for your service.”

“I have to be, my da is Master of Buckland. Also, I like my cousin Bilbo, no matter what others say, he’s a fine cousin. And any friend of him is a friend to me. You’re very welcome Master Oakenshield, you have a fine day.” Rory hopped down off the cart. “If mum is looking for me, tell her we’re going to West Farthing woods.”

Thorin didn’t have a chance to reply as the child ran back through the streets. Hobbits. He followed the directions given him and was thankful to see the familiar door set into the hill at the top of Bag Shot Row. He halted and tied the pony to the fence, stalling as he took in his travel worn state. He should get a room at the inn and make himself presentable, first. That would be the appropriate thing to do. But Bilbo’s letter, with the addition of Rorimac’s commentary, made Thorin feel he couldn’t wait.

Brushing at the coat to clear some of the travel debris off, he squared his shoulders and knocked on the round green door. Bilbo answered after a moment and Thorin felt something tighten in his chest to see the weariness in the hobbit’s face. He wore dark colours, similar to those the hobbit was wearing the last time Thorin had seen him. The dark of mourning did not suit Bilbo. He belonged in bright and cheerful shades, not the dull browns and greys of mourning.

“You came.” Bilbo’s voice cracked and his jaw trembled.

Thorin didn’t know what came over him, but in the next instant he crossed the threshold of Bag End and pulled Bilbo into his arms. The young hobbit stiffened briefly, then relaxed against him. It was some minutes later that Bilbo finally stepped back. But he appeared stronger for it, more in control.

“Are you all right?” Thorin asked. “I’m so sorry, Bilbo. I came as soon as I could.”

Bilbo’s bottom lip trembled and he blinked rapidly, wrestling for control against emotions that Thorin was far too familiar with.  The hobbit reached out and adjusted the collar of Thorin’s coat. “I’m so glad it fits. I was terribly frightened we’d screwed up the sizing. Mum was sure, but I had her add a couple of extra inches into the seams just in case.” In control now, Bilbo seemed to remember himself and stepped from Thorin’s arms. “Come in, please. I have tea made. Grandfather and my aunt Mirabella are here, we’re just finalizing the arrangements.”

Thorin stepped further into the foyer. “I don’t wish to intrude. I can secure a room at the Inn and then come back.”

“Please stay.” Bilbo said, Thorin caught a flicker of movement; Bilbo’s hand clenched, then released. “You’re not intruding, and I have the guest room ready. So please, stay.”

“What’s going on out there? Oh Master Oakenshield, glad to see you’ve returned.” Gerontius said from the entrance of the living room. “Well, Bilbo my boy, I do think we’ll be off now. Everything is sorted for today. Mira, darling, let’s go find that rascal of a son of yours. And, Master Oakenshield, once we’re free of this sombre business you and I can take a look at that Smithy of yours. I would’ve had my boys in there cleaning and fixing the woodwork, but you’d know best.”

For such an old hobbit, Gerontius walked with speed and after clapping Bilbo on the shoulder and then Thorin, he was out the door before Thorin could even begin to respond. “Oh Mistress Brandybuck. Your son said he would be in West Farthing woods if you were looking for him.”

Mira sighed and rubbed her gently swollen belly. “Of course he is. He and those cousins of his are probably looking for elves again. Excuse me Master Dwarf, Bilbo, take care.” She said and hurried after Gerontius.

Bilbo and he were left alone in the entranceway of Bag End, and Thorin was quite at a loss. It seemed they both were. The silence stretched for long minutes until Bilbo seemed to remember himself and fled into the kitchen for tea. Thorin closed the front door and set his coat on the hook. He left his boots outside, since the mud from the spring roads would dry better on the step and he followed Bilbo into the kitchen. The house had changed little since he’d been in it last year. The decorations were quite the same and the scent of fresh baked scones and warm jam hung in the air. But there was a heaviness to the home, a hollow ache as if the house itself grieved for the reduced Baggins family.

“So, a smithy. Are you staying in the Shire this year?” Bilbo asked as he set a plate of scones down at the table.

“That is a possibility,” Thorin said as he took his seat. “I have to look at it first. I was told it wasn’t in use, so it might not be suitable. But if what your grandfather has mentioned about getting it in order is true, there might be work for me here.” He took a sip of the hot tea and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? You’re closer to home, and I’m quite sure there will be work enough for you. There hasn’t been a smith in these parts since before I was born. We’ve mostly traded for things or gone as far to Bree for larger orders. You will be in quite the demand, especially with your skill.”

“And what do you know of my skill?” Thorin asked, teasing.

Bilbo spluttered and took a sip of tea. “Well, not much, but I’ve seen the care you put into everything else, from chess, to hunting. I can’t help but think that care translates into everything you do. And the fact that you care so much for your family would be reason enough for me to assume your work would be nothing short of excellent.”

Thorin felt heat rise to his cheeks and he focused on his tea. Leave it to Bilbo to undo him with a single compliment. “You are too kind, Master Baggins.”

“Oh, please, call me Bilbo. I’m not used to this ‘Master Baggins’ business. To me that’s still my father,” Bilbo said quietly. He continued to stare at the rim of the tea cup and Thorin could see a fine tremor on the surface of the tea.

Thorin inclined his head. “I would be honoured, Bilbo,” he said, “And you must call me Thorin.”

The smile Bilbo gave him was watery and fragile, but it spoke of some hidden happiness that was yet buried below his friend’s grief. “Excellent.”

 

*

 

The following day, Thorin left early to meet the Thain at the old smithy. Bilbo would have accompanied him but he didn’t know the first thing about a forge, and truly he knew it would only be procrastinating his more pressing duties.

His mother rested in one of the deeper burrows used for bodies of those who passed in winter, since the ground had been too frozen for a proper burial. There was little left to be planned for, but there were other details, including the burial feast that followed.

Hobbits were not generally one to mourn a death, preferring to celebrate the life lived. Food and song and games accompanied it all. It gave the grieving family a chance to relax, and if not forget, at least focus on some of the better times. It was also an excuse to fill the house with food so that the family wouldn’t have to cook for a few days.

His aunts, Donnamira and Mirabella were handling that portion of things for Bilbo. It was up to the young hobbit to choose flowers. He had a meeting with several of the gardeners and the Rumbles who were in charge of the hot houses. But that wasn’t until after second breakfast and Bilbo found that all he could get the energy for was sitting and staring out the kitchen window.

He had woken that morning and for one blissful instant he’d completely forgotten about his mother’s death. Part of his mind was convinced he could hear her singing in the kitchen. The next moment, as memory returned, he had to grab a pillow to muffle his scream. It felt like losing both of them all over again, all at once, and he couldn’t breathe for the pain in his chest. It took him several minutes to collect himself and he dressed with trembling hands and yet more tears.

Bilbo wished he could be over this, for the pain to have passed. And felt guilty for wishing it away, for if he wished the grief away, didn’t that mean he was wishing his parents away? In the other room across the hall he could hear the once familiar sounds of Thorin waking and going about his morning ablutions, and that gave Bilbo something more productive to do. He had to see to his guest, and get breakfast on the table.

Now that Thorin was out, Bilbo felt at odd ends, so he went about cleaning the kitchen in a sort of daze. He washed the dishes and put them away by rote. Then he swept the floor and wiped down the counter and table. Afterward he took his pipe and went into the back garden for a few puffs to settle his nerves.

He supposed he could have gone out front, no one would begrudge him a smoke. But he was only twenty-two, and now that his mother was gone, he was truly the head of the family, and with that came a lot of responsibility and certain expectations of behaviour.

The taste of the pipe weed calmed Bilbo and he felt the fine threads of his fraying nerves settle enough that he could carry on. A bell rang through the smial and he tapped out his pipe to set it by the door. With a deep breath, Bilbo adjusted his waistcoat and went to meet his aunt, and the beginning of his duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings: 
> 
> Gladiolus: Flower of the gladiator, strength of Character  
> Hydrangea: heartfelt emotion and gratitude.


	11. Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic fluff in the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Striving-artist is amazing. You realize this yes? Are we clear? I mean, brilliant, just bloody brilliant.
> 
> I don't think there are any new warnings for this chapter. Oh yes, I have been told it is cavity inducing. Enjoy!

#  **Domesticity**

The forge was in passable condition. Enough that Thorin felt he could make a decent living with it this year. It had to wait though. The next few days were tied up with the funeral, Bilbo was much more involved and Thorin was privy to more.

Those first weeks of April were difficult, Thorin watched as Bilbo tried to soldier through the burial, and the funeral party that followed. The strength the young hobbit demonstrated was nothing short of remarkable, especially when Thorin considered that until last year Bilbo had led a remarkably sheltered life. Tween adventures to Rivendell notwithstanding.

At night, when the rest of the Shire went back to their homes and he and Bilbo were left alone, Bilbo’s shoulders would droop, and he would lose that steely control. He would not cry, no matter how much it looked as if he wished to. Thorin wished he could explain that he wouldn’t be seen as weak. Emotions were felt deeply  by dwarves, and to express them was quite normal as far as Thorin was concerned. But from the little he had gleaned of Hobbit customs, it seemed that emotional outbursts were not only discouraged, but outright frowned upon.

They settled into a routine of a sort, sitting in front of the fire and playing chess or reading. Once Thorin was able to start up the forge he received his first set of orders from the Thain. They were mostly household items, a new cookpot and new locks for the doors to the Great Smial. Soon other orders started coming in, and he found his days were busy from dawn until dusk.

The day he tried to pay Bilbo for his board went poorly. Once again, hobbit politics seems to be the crux of the issue.

“What do you mean you don’t want money?”

“I don’t need it, Thorin. You’re my guest. Why would I expect any money?”

“I’m making more than enough to send home. You’ve been very kind in letting me stay here, but now that I’m settled in the forge it’s not right that I’m not earning my keep.”

Bilbo snorted indelicately. “Thorin, you don’t need to earn your keep. You’re my friend, and I will not take money from you. The room is yours.”

Thorin felt the edges of his control fray and he let out a growl. “This has nothing to do with friendship. The money is yours, now take it.” He left the house and went to the forge. Anything so he wouldn’t ring Bilbo’s fool neck. Stubborn hobbit, why couldn’t take appropriate payment?

The days passed slowly, and each night he’d find the bag of coin on his dresser. In the morning he’d leave the same bag on Bilbo’s writing desk. It went back and for like this for weeks and became something of a running joke. Or it would have if Thorin’s patience wasn’t at an end. In desperation, Thorin started to look around Bag End for inspiration.

It didn’t take long to figure something out and soon he had made a new set of pots for Bilbo. Instead of presenting them to him, which would have been the proper form, he simply switched the old ones out for the new. Over the course of the next few weeks, he found other ways to pay for his board. New garden tools, a new set of coat hangers for the front room, light fixtures and a set of candle holders quickly followed.

“Thorin, this is getting out of hand.”

“You won’t accept coin for my room and board, so I’ve found a way around that.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“I will not take charity. I am not someone to be pitied, Bilbo.” Thorin refused to look at Bilbo, instead studying the chessboard between them. “If you cannot accept these gestures of payment I will take a room at the Green Dragon.”

“I don’t pity you. I’ve never pitied you. You’re my –“ Bilbo took a deep breath. “You’re my only true friend, Thorin. I don’t want you to leave, but neither do I wish to accept something as silly as money. I have more than enough as it is. And I would hate to see coin come between our friendship.”

Thorin finally looked up from the chessboard. Bilbo was half in shadow from the flickering firelight. He looked pained, but sincere. “Money is not silly, Bilbo. Perhaps you might be comfortable. But I’m living here under your roof and not paying for what I take. And before you argue, tell me, would you need to replenish your larder as much if I were not here?”

“No, I would not. I would not need to refill the pantry as often, nor would I perhaps bake nearly as often as I do,” Bilbo admitted, and Thorin felt a smile tug at his lips in satisfaction. “But then I don’t suppose I’d be eating quite so much myself, either. I wouldn’t have reason to do much of anything.” Bilbo sank back into the chair and closed his eyes. Thorin could see his hands clench the sides of the armchair and the fine skin along his knuckles blanch.

“Without you here, I’d probably forget to do a lot of things. I’m barely holding it together as it is. So forgive me if I despise the reminder that your time here is limited. That once the weather turns you’ll be heading back home to your family and I will be alone here.” Bilbo shook his head. “I don’t mean that I would wish to deprive your family of your company, just... Oh I don’t know. Excuse me. I’m rather tired.”

Thorin watched as Bilbo fled the room. That could have gone a lot better, he supposed.

*

He never mentioned the money again. But the bag of coin disappeared back into Thorin’s belongings and was sent with the next set of letters home. The problem was, Bilbo was right. The weather was going to turn and rather soon, as Midsummer had already passed and the winds were picking up. With the winter, Thorin would go home. He knew Bilbo had family, nary a day went by without a missive or a cousin coming to pay a visit, but even Thorin noticed the odd stiffness to the conversations, and the rigid behaviour that Bilbo displayed.

Other hobbits didn’t seem to notice, but perhaps they weren’t familiar with the Bilbo that Thorin knew. Thorin couldn’t help but worry about how the young hobbit would manage over the winter. He hoped that Gerontius and the rest of his family, especially his aunts and their children, would be nearby. Maybe it would do Bilbo good to spend some time in the great Smial and not be alone.

In the end there was nothing Thorin could really do. A few days after Bilbo’s 23rd birthday, the winds changed and the air grew cold. Bilbo was a little better, but Thorin also understood the loss of a parent: the ache it left. He restrained his tongue and never offered more advice than Bilbo was willing to take. He closed up the forge and left one early October morning, wishing Bilbo farewell. The young hobbit filled his wagon with gifts and baskets of food ‘so you’ll remember to eat you silly dwarf’ and he returned to the mountain for the season.

*

Spring had come to the Shire once more, and all the windows were open to allow in the fresh air. The winter had been terribly lonely, and by the time Yule had arrived he accepted his aunt’s invitation and spent the rest of the winter in BrandyHall. It had been a mild winter. Bilbo no longer felt the chilled touch of malevolence in the wind.

He was still plagued with odd dreams. They always cropped up when the snows fell, and he wondered if it was just an association because of that winter. He no longer liked the cold. Even on Yule he had stayed indoors while his cousins played and made snow hobbits.

When the weather turned, he made his way back to Bag End. The smial was just as empty as it had been. Just as cold as it had been after Thorin had left. Only now it was covered with a layer of dust. He spent those first days cleaning until his fingers ached and the smial smelled of fresh lavender over the astringent scent of vinegar.

His pantry was full and he was baking a few favourites to keep the loneliness at bay. He hadn’t heard from Thorin in a few weeks, though his mail was possibly in limbo because of his recent move back home. There was also the weather to consider. The Shire had been lucky, but the Blue Mountains might not have fared as well.

Bilbo heard the knock on his door and started. He wiped his hands on his apron and went to answer it, letting out a shock of happy laughter. “You look like you crawled through the mud to get here! How bad were the roads?” he asked as he pulled Thorin through the door and into the smial.

“My wagon threw a wheel, I had to repair it on the road. There’s enough spring muck out there keep a pen of pigs happy for months.” Thorin growled.

Bilbo chuckled. “Come in, your room is ready, and I have scones in the oven. You can bathe and then we’ll catch up, shall we?”

Thorin followed him, and Bilbo watched him carefully avoid touching anything. The poor dwarf was covered in muck, it was stuck in his hair and clung to his clothes in part-dried clumps. The only part of him that was clean were his now bare feet.

“I would have been here hours ago,” Thorin muttered. “As for the room, you realize I can easily get one in the Green Dragon. Are you sure I’m not overstaying my welcome here?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Bath, now. And enough of this silly nonsense. As if I’d let a friend stay at the Inn, when I have a perfectly good room all set up for them.”

Thorin continued to grouse as he found his way to the lavatory. It was quite a while later before he returned, fresh and clean, his hair damp and held back in one of his many clasps. Except for the hair at his temples which he braided with deft movement, born of years of practice.

“How are the Blue Mountains?” Bilbo asked setting a plate of scones onto the table. It was joined by some cold ham, the last of the preserved peaches, and a jar of garlicky dill pickles. He poured boiling water into the pot and brought the tea service over. He set it on the table and waited for Thorin to seat himself before he did as well.

“They’re fine. Dis and the boys are doing well. My sister seems happier this year than in recent ones. It’s a nice change. She’s smiling more at least. The only real news is that I think Dwalin has found his One.”

Bilbo blinked. “His One?” he asked in confusion.

“Do hobbits not have Ones?”

Thorin had such a look on his face Bilbo felt the need to elaborate. “I’m not sure what you mean by One. Start there, and I’ll let you know if Hobbits have a similar concept.”

The Dwarf seemed torn for a moment, and Bilbo wondered if he had overstepped. There were things, knowledge, that was forbidden for him to learn because he wasn’t a dwarf. He didn’t want to put Thorin in such a spot and he opened his mouth to tell him it was all right, but Thorin seemed to make up his mind in the same instant.

“When we, the dwarrow, were created, it is said the Mahal took his hammer and split us in two and our souls were separated.” Thorin held up one of his finished braids. “Like a braid, a dwarrows soul is inextricably entwined with anothers. A dwarrow is meant to find their One. We feel it as an ache or a longing, for someone else. It is rather hard to explain.”

Bilbo smiled. “It sounds romantic. That there’s someone out there, just for you.”

“Do hobbits have something similar?”

Bilbo thought for a long moment. “Hobbit love is generally very simple,” he said quietly. “It’s flowers, and cakes, and comfort. My father and Mother, theirs would be the closet I think to what you’re referring. Da fell in love with a Took girl who had more adventure in her heart than sense, or so the story goes. They say that there hadn’t been a love story in the Shire like that since Bullroarer wed his wife Narissa.

“Perhaps we have Ones, but they’re just very rare. Most hobbits look for the simple and the comfortable. I think it takes a special kind of person to hold out for your other half.” Bilbo buttered his scone and took a bite. Both of them were quiet for a time until Bilbo added. “So you think Dwalin has found his, then? Has he said anything?”

“No, he won’t tell me a thing. He tells me to mind my own business and that I should most definitely not play matchmaker since I’m rubbish at it.” Thorin had such a look of offense on his face Bilbo had to bite his lip not to laugh.

“So if he won’t say anything, then how do you know?”

“He’s been in the forges all winter. Dwalin’s a wonderful silversmith, but he’s never really had time for it, prefers fighting and sparring. But he’s been working on something. All winter he worked on it. I’m going to find out what it is, he can’t keep it from me forever.”

“You’re happy for him, then?”

“Of course, he’s been my friend for as long as I can remember, I want him to be happy. I also want to find out if this dwarrowdam is worthy of him. No friend of mine is going to wed someone who doesn’t appreciate them as they should.”

“You’re a good friend,” Bilbo said, with a smile. “I’m quite sure you will get to meet his One when the time is right.”

“Perhaps, but I tell him everything. I don’t like when people keep secrets from me.”

 

*

 

The rest of the week was fabulous. The house no longer felt so empty, and he no longer felt lonely. But something ate at him. Not all the time. He’d be out in the garden and he’d feel a bit restless, unable to concentrate. Bilbo wasn’t sure why. He had no idea what was going on or where the restlessness had come from.

The restlessness continued into summer, and still he could find no cause. Or rather the only cause he had found for it was that silly conversation about Ones, which he and Thorin had months ago. ‘ _I don’t like when people keep secrets from me_ ’. It rattled about in Bilbo’s brain and took up residence there. It never left. Was he keeping a secret from Thorin? Well, yes he supposed. It was a private thing perhaps. But it was something he was keeping from his friend.

Bilbo wasn’t used to this. Everyone in the Shire knew. His parents had given him the right to choose, and then his adventure in Rivendell had happened, and he’d come home a different hobbit.

There had been rumours around then. That he had gone through a spell or had elven magic done on him. Some of the other hobbits avoided him or thought him cursed. Just another thing to add to the caul-born myth that still followed him. His dreams hadn’t helped that much, but ever since Thorin had come around, the rumours had quieted. More hobbits had started taking him seriously, and were respectful, cautious.

They seemed to take the Dwarf’s opinion of the young hobbit over that of his family. That should bother him. It really should. But Bilbo couldn’t object to it. Not when he was being treated respectfully, not when his opinions were being counted and sought out.

But Thorin assumed he as was a boy. Had been born a boy. And while Bilbo was male, felt male to his very core, a part of him still felt like he was lying, that he was dressing up as a part, and one wrong move would upset the whole thing. Perhaps that’s why he kept thinking about that secrets comment so much.

So that left him with two options. He could ignore the voice in his head, that tiny awful voice that told him he was lying, and that he was only masking what he really was. The same voice told him he was keeping secrets from his friends and he was a coward. He could pretend the voice never existed and carry on until it took over. He already fought that voice enough after his mother died. It came back whenever he felt low or missed his mother and father. It was an awful, insidious cloud. He had tried to ignore it in the past and that had never worked. He had only gotten worse. His aunt Mirabella had been very worried about him during the winter after Bella’s death. It was yet another reason he’d ended up in Brandy Hall.

The other option was to talk to Thorin, and tell him everything. He really liked Thorin, he was a good friend. A true friend. He didn’t think Thorin would have trouble with it, and if he did, then obviously he wasn’t as good a friend as Bilbo believed.

It took another two weeks to find his courage. It was a hot summer night just after Lithe and they were out in the back of the smial in the sunroom. All the windows were open to catch the breeze that was drifting across the hill, and the scent of wildflowers and honey was in the air.

“Thorin, I wanted to tell you something.”

“Hmm, what’s that?”

Bilbo looked over to the dwarf, dozing in his chair. He had had a busy day in the forge and Bilbo hesitated, perhaps this could wait… but no, now was the time. He wanted to do this.

“I’m, that is, when I was born my mother made a decision. It wasn’t done in the shire before, and it caused quite a stir. And I will understand if you have difficulty with it, but I wished to tell you because I think you are very true friend and I do not wish there to be secrets between us.” He was stalling. Even he could hear that he was stalling. And he couldn’t look at Thorin. Not while he was telling him something so personal. He took a deep breath and continued.

“You see, when I was born, mother had only recently come back from her adventures. She married my father a year later and then shortly after that she was with child with me. The rumours around town at the time were all about the new Baggins baby, and what I would be, and all of the usual things that happen.

“But mother, bless her, decided that instead of following hobbit tradition, she would make up one of her own and told the entire town that I was to choose.”

“Like Dwarrow, you mean?”

“So when I was born, no one had any idea what to get for the new baby. They spent more time arguing over whether weskits were appropriate, or if they should get dress -- What?”

Bilbo looked over to Thorin. The dwarf hadn’t really moved, he was still relaxed in his chair though he had a soft expression on his face, and a hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. “Dwarrow children are given the right to choose. When they are old enough, they let us know who they are. Most dwarrow have two birthdays as a result, a naming day, and a choosing day. How old were you when you chose?”

“Oh… I was three.” This was going far better than he expected. Somehow with Thorin’s temper he expected more of an explosion. He had seen Thorin’s temper. During the Fell Winter, and even more the last year when he first started the forge. “The point is, although I chose when I was three, what hadn’t been taken into account is that I am physically, that is to say, I bear the physical characteristics of a...” He groped around for the right words. “Without the help of the elves I would appear female.”  

“Do hobbits have choosing stones?”

“No, mother and I looked for anything that would help. We ended up going to Rivendell, and Lord Elrond helped me.” He fidgeted with his hands and scrunched his nose. “It took months of being there to see changes. I’m not sure about the next steps, but when I’m of age, if I wish to, I can go back and complete everything. It’s up to me, and I’m still reading about it. I-I wanted to let you know, because I didn’t want to keep that from you, and well, I trust you. Most hobbits know, but that’s the rumour mill around here. It’s secret so of course everyone knows.” Bilbo felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes.

“Bilbo, thank you,” Thorin said. There was such sincerity in his voice. “I admit I am not used to hobbit customs for this sort of thing. But I can tell you this; you are male. You’ve told me you are, and therefore you are. I’ve spent my life being raised under that belief. In fact, it is generally appropriate upon first meeting someone to ask their pronouns. I failed to do that our first meeting and I was about to apologize for the oversight. You however introduced yourself as mister and then your mother introduced you as her son.” Thorin looked at him with a question plain on his face.

“Are hobbits truly so concerned about that sort of thing?”

Bilbo let out a heavy sigh. “They’re better now. But when I was really young it wasn’t fun at all. Before I left for Rivendell I spent more time hiding away. My voice was too high, my features were too soft. No one called me Mister. Even after I came back with all the changes that had been going on, they still tried to force the ‘Miss Baggins’ issue. It wasn’t until after the whole Fell Winter business, and the orcs, that they started to take me seriously.”

“So it literally took you killing an orc for them to accept you were a male?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“I will never understand hobbits, Bilbo. Not even if I live here for a hundred years.”

Bilbo smiled and laughed a bit, the tension leaving his shoulders completely. “You understand me.”

“You’re more dwarf than hobbit.”

Bilbo flushed, and he felt his ears burn. “I’ll get us more tea, or would you like something stronger? I have a few barrels of beer, and there’s da’s wine cellar.” Rambling again, but it kept him from having to look directly at Thorin or contemplate the warm feeling that had settled in his belly at Thorin’s easy statement.

“What ale did you buy?”

“Some of Hamfast’s new lager, actually. He’s been experimenting over the winter. I’ve had some, it’s not as mild as some of the ales at the Green Dragon, but has a good solid flavour. Give him another year and he’ll be selling it at the Inn. Unless he perfects that shine of his.”

Thorin nodded, “It’s not dwarven, but I’ll give it a try. Tell your friend if he wants some pointers I can write to Balin, I think his husband’s cousin is a cook and might have a few pointers.”

“You can tell him that, I’m not getting into an argument over who brews better.”   

 

*

 

Years four and five flew by without much happening. Bilbo settled into a routine, and was finally able to handle the winters alone in Bag End. He and Thorin continued to grow closer. That wasn’t hard to do since Thorin lived under his roof for much of the year.

They enjoyed many things together, and were often near each other. The only problem was the telltale warmth. It grew in Bilbo’s heart every year he saw Thorin, and he just couldn’t stamp it out. So he ignored it.

That was much easier to ignore. He was still very young, and a silly crush would do nothing but complicate matters between them. He didn’t wish to complicate things. He liked his friend too much. Year five was the year of daffodils. Bilbo hadn’t even noticed he was doing it, until Thorin of all people pointed it out.

It was only when Thorin had asked why there were so many that Bilbo had started to count them. Oh by all that was green. His aunts had been by. They had seen the flowers. They _knew_. That wouldn’t do. Bilbo managed to fluster out some kind of explanation, and after a few days got rid of the evidence. He replaced them the following week Gardenia. His subconscious was not subtle.

Thankfully, Thorin had no idea what the flowers meant. And after careful questions to his cousins, his aunts believed he had a crush on a local hobbit lass. Never in all his life was he so glad for the assumptions of the Shire, and their inability to recognize what was in front of their face.

 

*

 

Year six opened with a yell.

“DWALIN MARRIED MY SISTER!”

Bilbo laughed. The look of outrage on Thorin’s face as he stood on the front stoop, yelling was priceless. “Yes, you’ve mentioned this, in a few of your letters.”

“BUT THEY MARRIED! When I wasn’t there.” Thorin followed Bilbo into the kitchen and Bilbo listened as Thorin told him the story of the secret wedding.

“Apparently, they’ve been courting for five years, under my nose. I didn’t see it at all. They’re very crafty. Dwalin had given her his last courting gift just after I left last year and they married two months later.”

“I thought you said dwarves have Ones?” Bilbo asked when Thorin paused for breath.

Thorin blushed. “Well, I might have been a bit mistaken in that. I wasn’t very happy when I found out about the wedding. Which was apparently why they decided not to include me. That’s rather cruel of them. I would have come around, eventually. To continue, Dis had to explain that not all dwarrow have Ones. Only some of our kind feel the longing.

“I was sure that she and Vili had been Ones, but she said that while she did love him very much, he had never been her One. Dwalin said pretty much the same thing. And I tried to punch him.”

“Isn’t he your best friend?”

“He MARRIED my SISTER.”

“Ah, so, protective familial ties override convivial feelings.”

“Yes, exactly, I knew you’d understand.”

Bilbo bit his lip, and tried not to laugh. Thorin was thoroughly outraged, though Bilbo figured this was as much act for the story as it had been true when the events took place. Dwarves, Bilbo had learned, have a flair for the dramatic. Thorin had it in spades.

“So, they’re not each other’s Ones, but they do love each other?”

“Yes,” Thorin groused. “And I’m going to be an uncle again.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“NO, no it isn’t. Because Dis decided to have the ‘ _talk_ ’ with me as if I were a dwarfling. Apparently she said that she and Dwalin had drawn swords in the practice ring to figure out who would tell me.”

“And the loser had to tell you?”

“No, the winner. Dis trounced Dwalin’s ass. She’s better with a blade than most dwarrow I know. She just prefers archery, and bows are her weapon of choice. Kili is taking after her very well.”

Bilbo smiled and handed Thorin a plate of his favourite cookies. “You’re ecstatic. By the time you get back home, there’s going to be another baby in the house for you spoil.”

Thorin ate a cookie, tried and failed to look outraged and a brilliant smile lit his features. Oh dear, Valar, that smile would kill him. Bilbo was sure. There was such happiness to it.

“I’ll have to make the happy couple something, and make something for the new arrival. I think I have some of my mother’s crochet patterns lying around. And before you start with the ‘you don’t have to do that’s, let me remind you that I want to do it. Besides, I feel like your family is as much as mine. I want to do something for them. To make up for their brother being so dramatic about it.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

“You are. You are the king of drama.” Bilbo continued to laugh, but the atmosphere changed. Thorin closed off suddenly, and he ate his cookie. He lapsed into silence and walked over to the Dwarf, nudging his shoulder lightly. He had gotten used to the easy affection Thorin had brought with him, and casual touching had stopped being something improper years before. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing,” Thorin said.

Bilbo could see it though, there was something that bothered him. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I should explain myself better.”

“Thorin, you do not need to explain yourself. I’ve hurt you in some way. I apologize. I promise I will endeavour to be more tactful. I’m very happy about your family’s news. As I’m sure you are.

“You did tell them you were happy right? After all the shouting the attempted punching?”

Thorin offered a weak smile. “Yes, I did. I would have liked to have gone to the wedding. But I understand their reasons.”

“Hmm, well, if you ever come up with a reason for them to show up in the shire, I could pull some strings and we could get them remarried under the party tree. Just think, Dwalin and your sister in flower crowns and bare feet.”

 

*

 

Another year passed and Thorin walked up the familiar road to Bilbo’s smial humming to himself. The winter had been particularly harsh that year. But there had been a new child to ease the chill of it. If he had thought Dwalin had been a soft touch around the boys when they were younger, nothing had prepared Thorin for the outright mush Dwalin had turned into when he held his child for the first time.

It had become a bit of a competition between the two of them who got to hold the little one longer. Thorin lost a lot. Mostly because he no longer really had Dis all to himself. Part of him mourned that. It was weird, he and his sister had shared such loss that it had bound them close after Azanulbizar, and then again after Vili’s death.

She was happy though. Honestly, blissfully, wonderfully happy, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t take that from her for even an instant. She had a baby in her arms, and a husband she adored. Halfway through the winter he had felt the urge to leave Ered Luin and come back to the Shire. His family was in good hands, Dis was more King than he was now.

It was a silly if pointless line of thought. He was happy too, happier than he had been in years. But he still hadn’t found his One. The longing he used to feel had all but vanished over the last years.

Perhaps it had to do with being so close to some of the things it had reminded him of. He now smelled fresh grass every morning, flowers were everywhere as he walked up the paths, and many dotted Bilbo’s home. He had found something close to what he had been missing. Now he couldn’t tell the difference between his dreams and reality anymore.

Whatever the case, it made no matter. He was happy to open the forge again, and to see his friend. He knocked on the round green door and smiled as Bilbo let him in.

The scent that assaulted him as he crossed the threshold was memory. “What smells so good?”

“Come in, come in. I finally, _finally_ got it!” Bilbo was quite excited and the young hobbit bounced his way back into the kitchen. The scent was strongest there. Warm lemons, sugar, and something else Thorin couldn’t place.

“Whatever did you get?” Thorin asked, distracted as he spied cakes warming on the stove. They were dainty yellow confections with a glaze over top. Bilbo had been cooking and baking for as long as Thorin had known him. Each year he seemed to pry secrets from another recipe. Thorin was always happy to test them, and had never been disappointed.  

Bilbo went over to the stove and picked up one of the fairycakes and brought it to Thorin. “Try them.” He said, giving Thorin nothing else.

Humouring the hobbit, he took the yellow cake and bit into it. It burst with fresh lemon and sugar, they overpowered his senses and he let out an unhindered moan. “I’m going to have to step up my sparring routine if you insist on making such delicious things.” He said, around mouthfuls of warm cake and cream. “What are these?”

“They’re my grandmother’s recipe. I’ve been trying to get it from my aunt for ages, and I finally managed over the winter. I’ve been perfecting them. The cardamom for the glaze was a bit tricky to get ahold of, but I managed to find a seller in Bree. It brings out the flavours don’t you think?”

“Dreadful, absolutely awful, I shall have to take them all off your hands. Please, I insist.” Thorin joked as he popped the last of one in his mouth.

“I made them for you, you numpty.” Bilbo said handing him a second.

Thorin smiled. “They’re amazing, Bilbo. Had you been born a dwarf, surely cooking would have been your craft.” He said as he took the second fairycake. It was peaceful and quiet in the kitchen. Sugar, lemon, and cardamom filled the air. Underlying it all was the scent of fresh grass from the open window, and flowers.

Thorin felt his heart lurch in his chest and he looked over to Bilbo as he puttered around the kitchen. Oh Mahal’s anvil. Could he really have been that thick? Not to see what was in front of his face the last seven years? He coughed and tried to clear his throat, the air had gotten very warm in the kitchen and he wasn’t sure how to respond. Bilbo came over to him and gave him a glass of milk. The confounded hobbit smiled at him, and Thorin had to try to hide every urge he had to blush.

Bilbo was his One.

Sweet merciful Mahal. Bilbo was his One. But Hobbits didn’t have ones. Bilbo had told him so, he was quite sure he remembered that. He couldn’t let Bilbo know. He just couldn’t. Bilbo was still too young to make such decisions. He would have to wait until Bilbo was older. Give him time. That was the smart thing to do.

Oh how was he going to live in the same house as his One? How many years did he have left to wait? Three, four? Forty? _Mahal be merciful on him and let it not be forty._ At this point he could barely handle the idea of twenty.

“Wh-what caused it to be so difficult to get the recipe from your aunt?” He asked, floundering for a discussion that would take his mind off the anvil it insisted on battering his heart against.

“Oh, well, recipes are precious things around here. Sometimes a dower gift could be a box of recipes from a mother to child. In my case, aunt Camilla received a set of my grandmother’s prized recipes. She can’t cook for anything, burns water. Uncle Longo says he loves her cooking, but the rest of the Shire are convinced she’s slowly poisoning him.”

“And you had the nerve to tell me that hobbits don’t poison anyone.” Thorin interjected.

“Hobbits would only poison someone if they are a rubbish cook. Anyway, I’ve been trying to get that recipe for years since it was one of the ones promised me before gamma Baggins passed. Aunt Belba said she was keeping it until I came of age, they were meant to be given after I was accorded full head of the family status.” Bilbo looked affronted and Thorin nodded, hoping his expression didn’t give him away.

_Don’t stare, don’t stare. No, don’t smile at him, oh sweet Mahal, stop staring at him, you’ll make him think he has something on his face._

“I told her I wasn’t waiting another three years for that nonsense.”

_Three years! He could survive three years. Yes this was good. Thorin get a grip on yourself._ “Did she give it to you then?”

“No, I had to give her a recipe of mum’s. One of her sweet recipes. She’ll never make it. She just likes lording it over Belba she got another secret recipe.” Bilbo took a bite out of one of the lemon cupcakes and smiled. “Yes, I know, Hobbits are strange. I’m sure you have something similar though. Proprietary designs for shiny things?”

“Shiny things?” Thorin spluttered. “You mean gems, and hand crafted jewelry?”

“Yes, those.”

Thorin opened his mouth and gawped. Somehow this hobbit had managed to singularly dismiss his entire races prized possession in a simple ‘shiny things’.

“You’ll catch flies that way.” Bilbo waved a hand. “Again, I’m a hobbit, we don’t pay much attention to jewelry. The occasional hair pin I suppose.”

“Don’t remind me. I get more orders for daisy hair pins than for anything else.”

“I prefer azalea’s myself. The point is, you have proprietary designs? Things that follow in families?”

“Yes, we do,” He said, not completely mollified. “They’re not just shiny things. But you’re right, certain designs are kept within families.”

“That’s exactly what recipes are like around here. Feuds have been started over a batch of good recipes. And you keep the special ones for, well, parties or special friends who’ve been away for months.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://sunspotcreations.tripod.com/lbgweddings/id17.html For all flower meanings. 
> 
> Thank you all again for reviewing and reading and loving this fic, I'm so, so, so, happy I could squeal. Flower crowns for everyone!


	12. Of Hobbits And Their Weird Arsed Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions, rumours, and reactions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Striving-artist, I really don't have enough words to gush about her and epic beta-ability. Read her fics, they're epic. 
> 
> Oh this chapter has a few trigger warnings to it, please be aware that there is a lot of blatant sexism and transphobia in this chapter.

** Of Hobbits and their Weird Arsed Politics **

 

A herald of daisies and soft breezes over green rolling hills announced the shift from winter to spring in the Shire. A metal laden cart creaked along the familiar roads toward the centre of Hobbiton; Thorin had returned to the Shire. He hooked the cart up behind the forge. Dusted everything down from winter and then grabbed his bag to head through Hobbiton and up the familiar road to Bag End. He knocked on the round green door and heard an answering call inside the house.

“Your gate squeaks,” He said by way of greeting. “I’ll have to fix the hinges. Ooph.” Thorin found himself with an armful of Hobbit, and he smiled and returned Bilbo’s hug. Hobbits, as Thorin had learned, were not generally a touchy people, so he took the small bits that Bilbo gave him and cherished them as he did everything else about their odd friendship.

“I’ve missed you too,” Bilbo said as he stepped back and Thorin had to chew the inside of his mouth. The hobbit had grown a half a head taller since last autumn and he no longer slouched his shoulders. His hair was still abysmally short, but the copper curls were fetching; and while the hobbit’s lack of beard would never be considered handsome by dwarvish standards, the light and happiness in his friend’s frank gaze and the open smile on his lips sent heat pooling in Thorin’s stomach. Oh Mahal, falling in love with a hobbit was hard on his heart. Especially when the other didn’t return the sentiment.

Bilbo was talking a mile a minute, filling him in on the goings-on from the winter, as Thorin followed Bilbo into the house. He set his bags down and placed his coat on one of the hooks. He barely heard a word the hobbit said, unable to get over the difference a few months had made. The last three years had been a special kind of torture. He had to watch Bilbo grow up before his eyes, knowing who he was, but never saying anything. The words had been on his tongue so many times. He had been reduced to random bursts of Khuzdul to keep his feelings secret.

After the bloodbath of Azanulbizar and the loss of so much, it seemed selfish to wish that kind of happiness for himself. His sister had done what he could not and gave the Durin line two more heirs, and his nephews were as much his own children as they were nephews. She even had a new family with Dwalin; things were finally looking up for Durin House.

Now, he was seated in Bag End, with Bilbo happily chatting away about his cousins and his family and the events of the Shire, and Thorin felt a mix of emotions he had not thought to ever know. Contentment, peace, a lightness in his heart. And, if he dared to admit it, even to himself, a sense of belonging and being home.

There he was, miles from the Blue Mountains, further still from Erebor, and Thorin felt like he had come home. All because of a kind, if fussy hobbit, who spoke too fast and fed him way too much.

“What?”

Thorin blinked and looked at Bilbo. “I didn’t say anything,” he said, trying to cover his gaff and took a large swallow of too hot tea.

“Exactly. You’ve let me rattle on for the past ten minutes, and you’ve been staring. Do I have something on my face?” Bilbo laughed and suddenly the kitchen became that much smaller.

“No,” Thorin finally managed. “You do not have anything on your face. I was just, lost in thought. I apologize.”

“Is everything all right? Is your sister doing well? The new baby? Your letters are always wonderful but I fear you leave an awful lot out of them.” Bilbo tutted and had such a fretful look on his face, Thorin felt guilt twist his stomach, touched though he was by Bilbo’s concern. “We are friends, and your burdens are my burdens, so please, don’t feel as if you have to hold back.”

Thorin shook his head. “I’m not holding back, Bilbo. I promise.” A bald lie. A horrible, terrible bald-faced lie. “It has been a while since I’ve been in the comfort of your home and the relative quiet is a nice change. Life with my sister and family is anything but quiet. I was just appreciating that.” Not technically a lie, but not the truth either.

Bilbo relaxed visibly, and he smiled once again shaking his head. “You love them and miss them. Though I’m glad Bag End can offer you some measure of peace.”

“I’ve never denied that I love them. But they are trying at the best of times, both nephews have inherited their mother’s knack for finding the exact way to make me lose my temper.”

“You don’t say.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Ten years, my dear friend. You think I haven’t picked up on just how short that temper really is?”

Thorin pursed his lips. “I am the picture of equanimity. You have never met them, they are enough to drive even the most patient of dwarves to their wit’s end.”

Bilbo chortled. Thorin felt the air in the room suddenly leave as mirth suffused Bilbo’s entire frame and his small shoulders shook with undisguised glee. “Oh, that’s priceless. You, Mister grump? Controlled? Yes, definitely. Calm? Is a hurricane, calm? I’ve watched you throw a hammer into the fire of your forge because you couldn’t get a daisy right.” Bilbo took Thorin’s hand and opened the palm where two pale scars bisected his hand. “Glad to see that it healed well, in the end.”

Thorin grumbled half-heartedly. It most certainly had nothing to do with the warmth that spread from where Bilbo touched his hand. “Yes, well, you confounded hobbits and your need for flowers on everything.”

Bilbo shrugged and let Thorin’s hand go. “Hobbits like flowers, they have meaning. Just as metals and other shiny things have meaning for dwarrow.”

“Shiny things he calls them. Precious gems that are hewn from rock, cut and crafted with the ultimate care. Yes they have meaning. Flowers are by any roadside and lake.” It was an old and fond argument, the heat long gone out of such words.

“Pretty pebbles for all a hobbit cares for such things.”

“Yes, you would fill your home with flowers only to watch as they wither away. A gem cannot wither, it lasts.”

“The flower is no less precious for its short life, Thorin. And I would much prefer my flowers in a garden, where they can bloom outside my windows and fill my world with colour and life.” Bilbo stood and took a plate of scones from the counter and set them in front of Thorin. “You look tired. Was the winter difficult?”

Thorin shrugged his shoulders. “No worse than any of the others,” he said quietly. “I rode through the night to reach the Shire. The roads are not as safe as they once were.” Thorin finished the last of his tea. “There were reports of attacks on the roads between The Blue Mountains and Bree, even during the winter. No casualties, thank Mahal, but still, worrisome nonetheless.”

“O-Orcs?” Bilbo asked, and Thorin cursed silently. The Hobbit had developed a well-deserved fear of the beasts when they had first met. It had only deepened as the years progressed, despite the safety of the Shire. But Thorin would not lie to Bilbo about this.

Thorin nodded. “There have been reports of them. Small bands here and there. The Shire is safe, Bilbo. The Rangers maintain their patrols and you are secure inside your borders.”

“Perhaps.” Bilbo worried his bottom lip. “But you travel that road as does your kin. I’ve been rather naïve that it was a simple thing for you to travel for work.”

“I take the proper precautions, and my family is well protected. And Dis is more than capable of handling herself against a few Orc should it ever come to that.” Thorin yawned largely. “It’s you I worry about. Are you sure you would not let me teach you the sword again?”

Bilbo hurried to stand. He pulled Thorin to his feet and gently pushed him from the kitchen. “Enough talk. Your room is all ready for you. Go and have a rest, Thorin. Talk about sword training can wait until then.”

Any argument he had died with another yawn and he padded deeper into the Smial and to his room. Thorin shut the door behind him and removed his clothing, stumbling to the bed. He let out a heartfelt sigh as he hit the feather mattress, the scent of crushed lavender filling his nostrils, Bilbo must have had the mattresses refilled. That brought a smile to Thorin’s lips and once again he felt warmth curl in his belly.

Exhaustion weighed him down, made his limbs feel heavy and sank into the bed gratefully. Despite that, his heart beat a steady unerring tattoo, as it always did when near Bilbo, his One. It had been three years to the day, that he had put all the pieces together and discovered his Sanze.

Thorin sat up with a jolt. Three years.

 

*

 

Life in the Shire was slow. It had a careful cadence to it that the rest of the world had forgotten. Thorin reopened the forge and orders trickled in piecemeal. He had brought with him iron and silver, some gold, lots of copper, and some steel. He could replenish his stock with a trip to Bree in early summer, but what he had now was enough to get a good start on things.

Work in the forge also gave him something to focus on, other than what he was going to do about his feelings regarding Bilbo. Bilbo who was wonderfully bright, cheerful, ever helpful, and while not classically handsome to other dwarves, he was very pleasing to the eye. Especially when he laughed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth. Bilbo had such a wonderful laugh.

He coughed and heated pieces of copper for a set of pots, Mrs. Bolger had purchased. Bilbo still had several months before he came of age, and Thorin feared they would trudge by with infinitesimal slowness. He wanted to tell Bilbo what he meant to him. He needed to. Part of Thorin worried that the information could sunder their friendship, that perhaps there was some hobbit Bilbo fancied. Mahal wouldn’t be that cruel to him, would he?

Yes, he would.

Most importantly, Bilbo was utterly unaware of Thorin’s status as king. Why he had kept that information from his friend, even he didn’t know and the guilt twisted at his stomach. At first it had been self-preservation, keeping something back lest he find himself held for ransom.

Laughable yes in retrospect. Him being held against his will by a bunch of hobbits. But a life on the road had left him with a healthy dose of paranoia. By the time he realized no such thing was about to occur, it seemed odd to just mention, ‘oh by the way I’m a king, oh I don’t have a kingdom anymore, there’s currently a dragon squatting in it. No, no, I have no claim to anything other than a title’.

A king in name only. It mattered so little to the hobbits that Thorin had been swept away by it all and just forgot to mention it. No, that was wrong, he had not forgotten to mention it. In the privacy own mind he could admit his cowardice. Each year it had become harder and harder to reveal who he was. His guilt made only worse with Bilbo’s trust in him and the revelation of his own secrets. He cursed and slammed his hammer against the anvil, angry at himself for more things than he could enumerate. Any hobbits that were in earshot quickly left with gossip about a very angry dwarf.

 

*

 

Bilbo was in the market replenishing his cold pantry when he heard the rumour. Word had quickly spread that the dwarven smith was in a foul temper and woe betide anyone who darken his door. Bilbo wasn’t sure what could have caused Thorin such anger, though he privately wondered if it was another flower order.

He purchased a whole pig and some excellent sausages, a few sides of bacon and several beef steaks. Thorin was entirely too thin in his opinion. If it was up to Bilbo, he’d drag each of his friend’s family from the Blue Mountains and feed them properly. As it was he could only feed Thorin, so he would at least do that.

The second rumour to reach him was odd. Apparently, Everard Rumble told the Bolger girl, who told one of the Bracegirdles that Thorin and Bilbo had had a lover's quarrel, and that was why the Dwarf was in such a state.

Bilbo was in the middle of purchasing some produce and had to bite his tongue. Oh dear, that wouldn’t do. Had he been improper? He continued to eavesdrop on his own rumours -- something he’d never been able to do as hobbits would fall silent when ever he was bout -- but he heard nothing untoward. There was the mention of _the cake_. What cake?

The lemon cakes, but that had been three years ago. He vaguely remembered a bit of kerfuffle when he first got the recipe, but, oh, yes, that would have done it. Him going around and practically bribing Camilla for the recipe with one his mother’s. It was unthinkable. Unless there had been a sweetheart involved. The only person who had received those lemon cakes had been Thorin. It wouldn’t have taken any time for the shire to be all but bursting with that knowledge. He finished his business in the market, and held his head high departing. Thorin didn’t know about this, and as far as Bilbo was concerned he would _never_  know about it.

Bilbo smiled and waved at several hobbits who gave him looks. He’d spent too many years receiving those looks for them to bother him now. He walked up Bag Shot Row and only stopped when he noticed someone standing outside his front door.

“Uncle Longo, how are you today?” He asked as he came through the gate. It squeaked terribly and the hinge shuddered. Thorin really was going to have to fix that. Perhaps they could work on that during their after dinner smoke.

Longo grunted. “You and I need to have a talk.”

That didn’t bode well. “Of course, uncle.” Bilbo hurriedly opened the door and ushered Longo inside. He deposited his goods in the cold pantry and went to the kitchen to make tea. “What brings you here?” He asked finally, taking care not to fidget. He never did know how to act around his uncle. Longo had always been rather standoffish, rather gruff.

“I know what you and that dwarf are getting up to, and it’s unseemly.”

Bilbo blinked owlishly. “Up to? Whatever do you mean uncle? Are you talking about the rumours in town?” He laughed. “Uncle they’re rumour. Nothing more.”

There’s nothing to them, because Thorin doesn’t feel that way, he thought.

Longo snorted. “You’ve been cavorting around, throwing yourself at him every year. The whole Shire knows! One of the Proudfoot kids saw you feeding him cakes in this kitchen. I know what you are. You aren’t fit to be head of the Baggins family.

“You’re a girl betwixt your nethers, not a boy. And now you’ve decided to flaunt yourself with a dwarf of all things. Bad enough you’ve been accorded head of the family, but now you’re ruining your parent’s memory taking up with that ruffian. It’s wrong, and if you continue on, I’ll go to the Thain myself. You don’t have Gerontius or your trollop mother in your corner anymore girl.”

A cold weight settled in Bilbo’s stomach and he shrank from Longo’s tirade. He felt sick, and sweat covered the palms of his hands. He really didn’t know where any of this was coming from. But the mention of his mother stilled the pounding his heart and he whipped his head up to look at Longo.

“How dare you. You come into my home and belittle me and my mother? I am the head of this family, and I have conducted myself accordingly. There is nothing untoward going on between myself and Thorin.” He clenched his fists at his sides and shook with barely controlled rage.

“I know you’re bending arse for the dwarf. Does he like taking you that way? Or does he prefer your quim?”

“Out! Get out, now. Take your ‘concerns’ to the Thain, for all I care. Just get out of my house. You awful hobbit.” Bilbo grabbed the first thing that came to hand and threw it against the wall beside Longo’s head. The tea cup shattered, and he grabbed another one, chasing the older hobbit from the smial.

“Do not come back here, unless you come to apologize for your abysmal behaviour. Father would be appalled at you right now.”

“I’ll be back, make no mistake. And I’ll be bringing the Thain with me. You’re a disgrace to the Baggins name, the entire Shire knows it. It’s about time it’s put to an end.”

Bilbo stood in the door of his home and watched his uncle storm off. He didn’t hear anything until a hand rested on his shoulder.

“Come now, Master Baggins. Let’s get that cut seen to shall we?” Hamfast Greenhand took the cracked cup from his hands and Bilbo hissed and looked down to see blood welling around a piece of pottery jammed in the skin.

“Oh dear. All right.”

Hamfast led him into the house and to a seat in the kitchen. He washed and cleaned the wound, removing the pottery and binding it carefully.

“T’wasn’t right what he said.” Hamfast finally uttered. “T’wasn’t right at all.”

It was then that Bilbo remembered that Hamfast would have been in the garden and would have easily heard everything from the open windows. Bilbo groaned and rested his head against his knees.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Master Gamgee. I also apologize for my behaviour. It was unbecoming of a hobbit.”

Hamfast snorted. “Unbecoming my arse. Were it me, I’d have aimed for his head and not the wall. That was horribly rude, and him a guest in your home. As your elder he should have had more care. And bringing your mother in it? That was just wrong.”

Bilbo’s throat constricted and he blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. It wouldn’t do to cry over this. Not yet, not while Hamfast was here.

“What happened?”

Bilbo looked up to see Thorin in the doorway. What was he doing back so soon? He wasn’t supposed to be back until evening. He shouldn’t be here to see this. “You’re home early,” Bilbo said, his voice thick with unshed tears.

Thorin was next him in the next instant, looking over his hand and the rest of him.

“Thorin, I’m fine, please.”

Hamfast snorted. “You’re not fine, Mister Bilbo, sure as I’m standing here. That relative of yours was a right arse. Speaking to you in such a way.”

“Bilbo, what happened?” Thorin asked quietly. His voice was so soft, so gentle. Why did he have to be so confounded nice? Bilbo couldn’t take, couldn’t handle Thorin’s concern, not when it was so unwarranted.

Bilbo couldn’t speak, words failed him and the only thing that left his throat was a strangled whimpered. He stood and fled deeper into the Smial. Away from Thorin and his kindness, and locked himself in his bedroom.

He was a coward: utterly craven, and spineless.

But how could he face Thorin. After the awful things that Longo said, how could he look his friend in the eye? It was only a matter of time before Thorin heard the rumours about them. The fact that he hadn’t heard them already was a miracle. But now, he would have no choice but to tell Thorin everything.

A pity really, he had liked having a friend.

There was no way Thorin returned his feelings. His uncle had been right; he’d flaunted hobbit tradition. He’d fed him cake in his kitchen. The scandal of it all. Bilbo pressed his face into the pillow

The thought of losing Thorin’s friendship made his stomach twist and the tears he was holding back came in a rush. He buried his face into a pillow to stifle the sound.

His bedroom door opened and he looked up to see Thorin. Valar help him, could he not break down in peace? Did he have to have an audience as he sobbed the last of his dignity into a pillow?

“C-Can’t a h-hobbit breakdown in peace?” He garbled into the pillow.

Thorin stood in his doorway, his hand on the knob. It creaked and he could hear nails groaning in the wood. Lovely, Thorin was angry. It would probably do to apologize now. He was absolute rubbish, his parents died and he couldn’t shed a tear. The thought of losing Thorin and he was a sobbing wreck. He certainly had his priorities askew.

“What did that wretched uncle say to you?”

Great, just great. Couldn’t he wait, just a little while? Just until the tears stopped and Bilbo could pull himself together enough not to be a complete mess?

“Hamfast said most of this is your story to tell though. I’m not asking you to tell me now. But I couldn’t leave you alone like this. Not after the dreadful things that were said by that miserable sharbrugn.”

Wait, Thorin was angry for him? That didn’t make sense. Perhaps Hamfast hadn’t told him the other rumours. He took several shuddering breaths before he could consider himself reasonably in control.

“This is going to require a lot of tea,” he said, his voice thick. He pushed off the bed and hissed when he pressed his injured hand against the bed.

“I have a salve in my bag, it’s good for burns and cuts. I’ll get it for you while you put the kettle on.”

Bilbo nodded and walked past Thorin, back to the kitchen. Hamfast was gone, and the shattered tea cup had been cleaned up. The water in the kettle was still warm, though someone had removed it from the fire. He wasn’t sure if that had been Hamfast or Thorin. Bilbo placed it back on the hook and set it over the flame. Soon enough the water steamed and bubbled.

He poured two cups of his favourite tea and set them down on the kitchen table. In the meanwhile Thorin had returned and took his usual seat. He gently took Bilbo’s hand in his own and unwound the bandage. The blood had started to clot and stick to the cloth and Bilbo hissed as it pulled at the edges of torn skin.

It was angry, red, and still bled sluggishly. “I think it might need to be stitched.” Bilbo said his voice still pitiful.

“I believe you are right. Give me one moment.” Thorin stood and came back a few moments later with Bilbo’s sewing kit and a bottle of clear liquid from the wine cellar.

Neither of them spoke. Bilbo watched as Thorin poured the alcohol into a bowl and dropped needle and thread into it as well. Then he took another bowl and place Bilbo’s hand over it. The only word spoken was a quiet apology and ice cold pain hit his nerves as alcohol ran into the deep gash. It bled furiously again and Bilbo hissed. He had to grip the table with his free hand to keep from moving.

Thorin tortured him again with another dose of alcohol and wiped it away carefully. Then he took the needle and thread and stitched the wound closed.

Bilbo found breathing difficult and he counted between clenched teeth as each stitch was added. Six in total, not many at all, and considering the scars Bilbo remembered seeing on Thorin’s body years ago, not near enough to match his smallest injury.

Thorin spread the salve over the closed cut and wrapped it again. He then poured a drink for Bilbo and urged him to take it. Bilbo obliged, and the heat of the liquor spread through him quickly, though it did nothing to dull the pain, it did loosen him a bit.

By all that was green, where did he even start? Coming out to Thorin hadn’t been nearly so difficult as this. What would he do, what would he say? The decision was out of his hands, Thorin deserved to know, especially since the rumours now concerned him as well.

“There have always been rumours about me. I’ve always been the odd Baggins. I’m okay with that. But, lately the rumours have been getting stranger. Apparently there’s a rumour going around that you and I had some kind of lover’s quarrel, which is why you were so angry at the forge today. My uncle did not take that very well.” Bilbo flushed bright red. “There’s more though. It wasn’t just the rumours from today.

“I’m so very sorry Thorin. I’ve been improper.”

“This is all my fault,” Thorin said, "I’ll go have a talk with your uncle. I don’t believe he had the right to say what he did and I will be having words with him about his deplorable behaviour. I’ll straighten this mess out. I promise.”

Bilbo waved a hand. “It actually gets worse.” He gulped down another drink, he had opened the floodgates, and wouldn’t back down now. “Apparently one of the Proudfoot boys saw me feeding you cake. Apparently the new rumours have resurrected some old ones, and the hobbits are finally putting the pieces together. I’m so sorry, Thorin. I know it was improper of me.” He stopped. Blinked. “Wait. Why would it be your fault? I’m the one who has been flaunting my feelings all over the Shire like a lovestruck fool.”  

Thorin stared at him for a long moment. “You. What?” Thorin blushed bright pink. Bilbo had never seen such a thing on the dwarf before. “Bilbo,” Thorin started, and he was sure he could see a yet redder tinge to Thorin’s cheeks. What in the Valar was going on? “I apologize for my behaviour at the forge today. If that is the source of all of this enmity between you and your uncle, I will go to his home now, and straighten this out at once.”

“Behaviour? Thorin it was a rumour, one that was started years ago. It had nothing to do with your behaviour today. It started because of the flowers. I made it worse with the lemon cakes. Were you truly angry today? I thought it was because some lass asked for another daisy hair pin.”

“Bilbo, what are you saying? Flowers and lemon cakes? Speak plainly please.”

Bilbo couldn’t look at Thorin, the dwarf’s face was too shuttered. He didn’t know if he could admit such things, but it was too late now. Thorin deserved an explanation.

“Hobbits court with flowers,” He started quietly. “I didn’t realize I was doing it at first. But I started filling the smial with Daffodils, then gardenias. My aunts realized what they meant, but most of the hobbits thought I was interested in some lass.” At Thorin’s blank look he explained further. “Daffodils mean unrequited love. Gardenia’s for secret love.

“It wasn’t until I wrangled that lemon cake recipe out from my aunt that the rumours got a bit heated. That recipe is a secret because it was the one gamma Baggins used to woo granpa Baggins.” Bilbo kept his head ducked, even as heat suffused his face. He was going to lose Thorin over this, he just knew it. “I’m very sorry, Thorin. I never meant to hurt you. And I never meant for the rumours to affect your business.”

Bilbo could not meet Thorin’s eyes. He sat at the table and tried very hard not to tremble. He could still hear all the awful things Longo had screamed at him. Bilbo just couldn’t bear to see hate or disgust in Thorin’s eyes. His vision blurred with unshed tears. He jumped when he felt callused fingers against his cheek.

“Bilbo, look at me please,” Thorin asked quietly.

“No, I-I can’t. Call me a coward, but I just can’t.”

“Then listen. I’ve spent ten years in your company, Bilbo Baggins, and there has never been anyone, in all my years, that has ever meant as much to me as you. You are my One.”

Bilbo gasped on a sob and cleared his throat to try and rid himself of the ache. “But the others –“

“Toss the others. Are they here in this room? No. And they have no right to be. Not if their joy is to spread vile rumour about someone. I’ve never felt this deeply for anyone, Bilbo. You make me want to be better, do better. I am happy here, living a simple life with you. Do you fancy another, Bilbo? Please tell me.”  

Bilbo shook his head vigorously. “No, i-it has always been you.” he said, not looking up. “No one has made me laugh the way you have. Nor have they been as brave, or stubborn, with a temper that could fell trees. They don’t have your eyes, or your voice.” Bilbo whispered. “It’s always been you.” Finally he looked up and met Thorin’s eyes. And oh the look in them. Bilbo had never seen them look so soft, so open before. There was a deep blush across Thorin’s nose and his cheeks, and his smile. ‘Valar, I would do anything, give anything for this dwarf to smile at me like that every day.’

Thorin slid his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, and the hobbit shivered and pressed his face into Thorin’s palm. “I have nothing to give to you. I have no way to show you the depth of my affections.” Thorin’s voice was thick with emotion and brushed his lips against Thorin’s palm in comfort. Thorin’s whole body shivered and Bilbo watched as heat flooded the dwarf’s cheeks and colour blossomed.

Bilbo felt tears sting behind his eyes. “Again with you and your shiny things. You are a kind and decent dwarf, you are rich in all the things that matter. I love you regardless of your fortunes.”

Thorin let out a breath, and Bilbo watched as his shoulders sagged. The next instant he felt warm breath against his hair and dry lips on his forehead. It was barely more than a caress and gone as soon as it occurred, but it left a warmth behind it that settled deep in Bilbo’s heart.

“Ibrûzamrâbê,” Thorin whispered and pressed another kiss to Bilbo’s fingers. “I think we should speak with the Thain. Head your uncle, off before he starts making trouble. I would like to do this properly, and for dwarrow that means asking permission to court from your oldest relative or head of the family.”

Bilbo felt his face heat and his jaw already ached with smiling. Courting, oh by all that is green could this even be real? But another thought, one not nearly so happy. “Longo would be the eldest on my father’s side. And I’m, technically the head of the family.”

“He’s already made his opinions known and decided to spread rumour instead of seeking the truth. Your mother’s brother though, the current Thain, he seems to have a good head on his shoulders. I will ask him.” Thorin replied. He continued to hold Bilbo’s hand and traced the lines of his palm with heavily callused fingers. “And while you are correct that you are the head of the house, you are not yet of age. I will do this properly. No one is going to speak another word of rumour about you again. If they try, I will simply cut off their heads.”

“Oh dear, I’m not sure that will stall the rumours, but they’ve never bothered me. Not truly, I’m used to them. I would rather we didn’t resort to bloodshed before any announcements were made. I’ll write to Isengrim, and send it off with a bounder this afternoon.”

 

*

 

Bilbo loved him. Thorin spent the rest of the day back in the forge. He continued to work on orders. Only, every few minutes that thought would shoot through him and his heart would pound and he’d forget what he was doing. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face, and his jaw ached with it. He forgot the problems of the morning. It didn’t matter now. Bilbo had said he loved him.

Bilbo Baggins was in love with Thorin.

He needed to make plans. Thorin had to speak with the new Thain. He had never met Isengrim, never had a need,  but now he needed to make it official. And if he was going to push his suit to court Bilbo, he would need to start things soon. It occurred to Thorin he did not know anything of Hobbit courting.

Though he could court him in the dwarven tradition. Perhaps there was a way to fuse the two. Whatever the obstacles, it didn’t matter, Bilbo Baggins said he loved Thorin. Every time he thought about it for more than a second, gave it life in his mind, his heart took to pounding all the more and it felt like it would rip from his chest.

He felt like he could take on the world. Surely a few hobbits and their backward politics  wouldn’t be too much trouble. He’d just explain that dwarven customs were different. Simple.

 

*

 

It was a week before a proper meeting could be set up with the Thain, and in that time, the rumours had continued to spread. Thorin now actively listened to the chatter around the forge. Though that chatter had dwindled quite a bit. He had apparently become a source of gossip and no longer a bystander. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased about that.

But the bits he’d heard from the other hobbits, first regarding himself and Bilbo, and then about the argument with Longo, were getting quite out of hand. Thorin took to glowering at any hobbit who so much as mentioned Bilbo’s name and quickly the number of hobbits near his forge dropped.

Probably not good for business, but once the whole thing blew over they would return. Now though, he was dressed in his best tunic, his hair was combed to a shine and he took extra care with his braids. He wore all the appropriate jewelry he had left to him that hadn’t been sold or bartered for food. He cut quite the figure if he said so himself. Or so he thought until he spotted Bilbo’s gaping stare.

“Is this not appropriate? Am I making some horrible hobbit gaff?”

“No,” Bilbo squeaked and turned beet red. “You look ready to do battle.”

Thorin grinned. “I’m missing a fair bit of armour, but I suppose speaking with the Thain requires armour of a different sort.”

Bilbo made another choking noise and he buried his head in his hands. Thorin wasn’t sure what had come over his hobbit and went to him. “Are you all right Bilbo? Are you feeling poorly? I can go speak with the Thain myself if you are unwell. We can postpone.”

“No. I’m quite all right. I just. Oh you silly dwarf. You’ve had how long to get used to the idea of this? I keep being surprised by it. And then you go and have to look so handsome, and you’re wearing blue. You’re doing this on purpose.”

Thorin chuckled and took Bilbo’s hand in his. The wound was healing rather well and in a day or so he could remove the stitches. “Three years. Three torturous, wondrous years. Of watching you grow, and loving you without ever be able to say it. Now I can, and I will continue to say it. And I wear blue because I like blue. You look rather fetching in it as well, I might add.”

Bilbo blushed right to the tips of his ears and he grumbled and fussed until they were on their way to the Tuckborough.

Once they reached the Great Smials, they were ushered into a smaller room off the main hall. Several hobbits had gathered there, made up mostly of Bilbo’s relatives Thorin was sure.

It had the feeling of a counsel, of petition. It reminded Thorin of the days before the dragon, when his grandfather would hold court days. There was a feeling of expectation in the room, of holding ones breath.

The small room they were in was like most Hobbit-made rooms, with curved wooden walls and a stone fireplace tucked into to one side. It was round, and there were two more exits aside from the door they just entered. One to Thorin’s left, and the other behind a long table which bisected the room, and an Elder hobbit sat in the centre with one hobbit on either side. The hobbits behind the table carried an air of authority to them. He assumed the one in the middle to be Bilbo’s uncle and the Thain. The other two, he had never met personally.

There were five more hobbits gathered aside from Bilbo and himself. Three off to the right and two off to the left.

“Ah good, you’ve arrived. Now we can get this business sorted.” The Thain said. “Would someone like to tell me what in all that is green is going on?”

“It’s not right! Bilbo and that dwarf are carrying on under our noses. Flaunting themselves to all of Hobbiton.”

“Yes, yes, Longo. We’ve heard you. We’ve all heard you. How about we hear now from Bilbo and Master Oakenshield shall we? I do not believe you’ve been properly introduced, Master Oakenshield. I am Gorbadoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland. The hobbit next to me is Thain Isengrim Took III, on his right is the Mayor of Michel Delving, Adelard Rumble. The others gathered, are Longo Baggins, his sister Belba and her husband Rudegar Bolger. Mirabella Brandybuck, and Isumbras Took, my sister and brother, round everyone out.”

“Now that introductions are out of the way. Bilbo would you care to explain what is going on?”

Bilbo took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Thorin felt his heart quicken in pride at the sight of his small hobbit holding his own here. Gone was the fussy and near panicked energy from before, replaced now with nothing less than mithril.

“There have been rumours spreading throughout Hobbiton of late, that Master Oakenshield and I are, lovers. That my behaviour toward Master Oakenshield was scandalous.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been aware of rumours about myself for many years. But I never realized they had extended as far as my guest, Master Oakenshield. I will not deny my feelings for him. But I promise that there was nothing untoward or inappropriate happening. Despite my uncle’s assertions to the contrary.”

“You’ve been carrying on with that dwarf of yours for years. It’s not right. Not right at all.” Longo muttered.

“I assure you, Master Baggins and I have been friends only through these years. Nothing untoward has been going on, and to suggest such, is one of the highest of insults.” Thorin said precisely. “Dwarven courting is a very delicate business, and to rush it would be to sunder all ties to our traditions. If my residing under Master Baggins roof is the cause of these rumours, I will gladly move to the Green Dragon. At the same time, I would like to make a formal petition to begin courting Master Baggins.”

There was a grumble amongst the hobbits and he looked over to Bilbo. His hobbit was staring back at him and his ears were beet red, but oh his eyes. There was such a wealth of emotion in them. Yes, this was more than worth it, if a bit backward in his opinion.

“Bilbo have you made your decision then? You’ve decided to be recognized as a hobbit lass?” Isengrim asked. The rest of the room quieted, and Thorin stifled a frustrated noise. What was it with hobbits and insisting this?

“I-I” Bilbo stuttered.

“Begging the counsel’s pardon. I am but a dwarf and am unaware of hobbit customs. I understand that Bilbo is a male, and has always identified as such. Why must he be recognized under the law as a woman in order to accept a petition to court? I have no doubt in my mind that should Bilbo ever decide that he is a woman, he would make a fine and upstanding one. But as ‘he’ has clearly decided long before this, why is the counsel asking for the change?”

“I told you! That dwarf is a bad influence. First her mother said she could wear trousers. Forced the entire Shire to go along with that nonsense. Now she has the dwarf on her side.”

“Oh Longo, do shut up.” Belba said. “You are not helping matters. To answer your question, Master Dwarf. What you are speaking of, is just not done. Courting is between a man and a woman. One of you must in the eyes of the law be recognized as such. Bilbo’s status gives you some leeway. Were she truly a male hobbit, you would not be able to court. At least not according to Hobbit customs, and your relationship would not be recognized.”

This was mad. They were utterly and completely mad. Thorin looked around to the rest of the hobbits gathered. None of them met his eye except for the Thain. And the look in the old hobbit’s eyes spoke volumes. Bachelor his hammer. This was unbelievable.

“I take it, Master Oakenshield, this is not how it is done among the dwarves?”

“No, sir, it is not. While relationships of this sort are not as common, they still happen. Dwarrow have long recognized that love in all its forms is special and precious. It must be cultivated and cared for at all costs. Some of us never feel a longing and choose to spend our lives devoted to a skill or craft. Others find their One with a shield brother, or a member of their guild. I find that I’m very confused by all of this. Especially as to why it matters so much.”

“Well, for children, of course. Hobbits marry to produce the next generation. Again, this is different from your folk?” The Thain asked.

“Children are a rarer still. And more precious than any jewel as a result. Marriage is for companionship, not just for breeding. Again I ask, why it matters so much. Bilbo is a male hobbit, and has stated such since I have known him. I have never thought to have children myself, and I would never make that a requirement of any courtship between myself and Master Baggins. That conversation is one that will be handled privately between he and I.”

“Why are you so accepting of this choice of Bilbo’s? ” The mayor asked.

“Because Dwarrow choose! We long ago learned that there are subtleties to a dwarrows gender that go beyond male and female. But even this is too simple an explanation. Westron is not my first language.” Thorin said, the edges of his temper fraying. Standing there, facing that council, he finally understood his mother’s rage. Her guilt. It twisted something in his stomach, and he prayed that Kili would never have to face this cruelty because of his folly.

“The onus lies with Bilbo to bear any young.”

“Why in the name of Mahal’s anvil does it matter about children? We’re entering a courtship. Discussions of this nature can wait until such time as the two of us are ready to discuss them.” Thorin clenched his fists at his sides and strove for an inner calm. Something that would keep him from decking the nearest hobbit that tried to hurt Bilbo. “Why is it important that Bilbo be recognized legally as a woman, when he is clearly not?”

“As a woman, I would no longer be Head of the Baggins family. I cannot hold property unless specifically willed as part of a dower gift.” Bilbo said, quietly. “I would not be able to have a job or retain employment unless it is in my husband’s business. And only upon his death would I be able to run the business, though that too would be in trust until the first male heir comes of age. I also could not vote, or retain office.  

“A woman’s role is to bear the children, and run the house.”

Thorin closed his eyes and counted until he stopped seeing red. Dwarrow traditions were archaic at times, but this was beyond what he was used to.

“Master Oakenshield,” Gorbadoc inquired. “This is something else that differs, I assume?”

“Dwarrow are persons and citizens under the law regardless of how they identify. They are called to a craft just like the men. My sister is a Master in the Gem Cutters Guild. And my Mother was a Master Mithril smith, and they both retained those statuses even after marriage. In the eyes of the dwarrow, your sex and gender are facets of who you are. Not shackles to bind you to your role in the house.”

“Our ways may be foreign to you, Master Oakenshield, but they work for us.” The Mayor said and his face took on a pinched look.

“Apparently, they do not. Otherwise we would not be having this ridiculous conversation.” Thorin groused. “Am I to understand that should Master Baggins choose to maintain his current gender, we will not be able to proceed with courting under hobbit custom? He must make the decision to be a woman in the eyes of the law?”

Isengrim let out a sigh. “That is as it stands right now. Though you’ve given us some interesting things to think about. Would neither of you consider it?”

“Neither? Why would my opinion on this matter carry any weight?” Thorin asked, incredulous. He turned to look at Bilbo, and his heart shattered. Bilbo stood, his head bowed, shoulders hunched and his arms tightly wrapped around his chest. Copper curls hung down and covered his face, but Thorin could see the wet shine of tears on his face. He made no noise, offered no rebuttal, but his entire body seemed drawn taut as bow string.

Isengrim opened his mouth but Thorin snarled in Khuzdul. “ _Enough of this, you’re hurting him. You’re his family and you’re hurting him_.”

“The council will deliberate and return with a decision.” Isengrim said, grimly.

“You can’t be seriously thinking about this, Thain. This is wrong. Just because dwarves are easily led by a pair of tits and ass doesn’t mean we hobbits have to follow suit.”

“Longo, peace. I am not making any decisions now. And were this an issue between two hobbits, I doubt there would be a need for a decision. But as Master Oakenshield is not a hobbit, there are other things that need to be considered. We cannot just blithely ignore his customs. This meeting is adjourned. I will have a decision soon, but do not rush me on this.”

The council disbanded and the rest of the hobbits filtered from the room. Thorin and Bilbo remained in the room alone. As soon as the doors shut, Thorin released the frayed control he had on his temper and filled the air with every invective he knew in Khuzdul. If he had access to his sword the hobbits in the smial wouldn’t have lasted against his rage.

“Please stop.” Thick with tears, Bilbo’s voice managed to sap the energy from him in an instant.

He expelled a heavy breath of air and his shoulders drooped. “That was a travesty. That wasn’t a council meeting it was a circus.” Thorin closed the distance between them but halted just inches away, unsure of the next step. Every part of him wanted to comfort Bilbo, but he was a warrior, had spent over a century fighting in one form or another. Offering comfort of any kind was foreign.

Bilbo swayed on his feet and Thorin reached out and gathered his hobbit against him. Bilbo stiffened for just a bare moment but he before Thorin could release him, he relaxed and Bilbo wrapped  his arms around him. The small hobbit’s shoulders shook, but he didn’t make a sound. Thorin threaded his fingers through Bilbo’s hair with one hand and tightened the other arm around Bilbo, pulling him close.

Bilbo raised his head, tear stained eyes meeting Thorin’s. “They haven’t agreed, we shouldn’t be like this,” he whispered, his voice was hoarse and cracked pitifully.

“We are not doing anything untoward,” Thorin whispered. “It’s better for all involved if I hold you. I have waited three years to be able to do this. I am not about to let the small mindedness and cruelty I witnessed today stop me from holding you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sharbrugn - rude term for hobbit lit. stone skull  
> Ibrûzamrâbê - Sun of my Soul
> 
> Yeah, this chapter has some highs and lows. 
> 
> All your reviews are like cake to me! I love you all!!


	13. Decisions From the Thain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decision time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Striving Artist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist) is the bomb! Go read her fics and send her all sorts of love.
> 
> ALSO!! TheladyZephyr made art for Interludes! [ Frerin!!](http://theladyzephyr.tumblr.com/post/120595852302/frerin-son-of-thrain-the-first-part-of-your) Go have a look and tell her how awesome she is!

#  _**Decisions from the Thain** _

Bilbo knew it was too good to be true. Too good to last. Within days of he and Thorin leaving the Great Smials, rumours had spread throughout the Shire. They were the talk of Hobbiton. Not only did a Baggins wish to unite with a dwarf of all beings, but wasn’t Bilbo a boy?

At first it was just talk. Whispers behind hands that were quickly shushed when he or Thorin happened nearby. Hastily changed subjects when he arrived at the market, or went to the Green Dragon. It was nothing overt, nothing he could pin down or quell.

In those days since the meeting, Bilbo alternated between elation and cold dread. Every time he looked at Thorin his heart was fit to burst, it thudded painfully and he felt as if he could run through the whole of the Shire and back. Thorin was the picture of a gentle-dwarf, and he never did anything that could be construed as untoward.

Their private time in Bag End was an all too brief oasis. They would take breakfast together in the morning as they always had, but each accidental touch, each compliment, left him blushing and stammering, and at a loss for words. Thorin was no better, and he would dissolve into his native language at the oddest of times and leave Bilbo pleasantly confused. Up until now, Thorin had been rather discreet with the secret language of his people. Since their mutual declarations, all secrecy had vanished and he would lapse into Khuzdul at all times of the day.

Bilbo asked him what they meant, but Thorin would smile and shake his head. “Soon, I will teach you very soon,” his dwarf would promise, then rumble something Bilbo assumed was affectionate. Then he’d kiss his fingers and Bilbo would be get flustered and change the subject.

But that was in the smial. That was their sanctuary. For the outside world, the world beyond the door of Bag End, had become difficult. The rumours were bad enough. The whispering something Bilbo was used to ignoring. But shops were conveniently out of stock for his usual purchases. Hobbits who he regularly did business with were clipped to the point of rudeness.

Just two days past he went to pick up his usual order of four dozen eggs. It took thrice as long to get them as usual and when he finally got them home, they were cracked to a one. Bless the Gamgee family and their nosiness, though they were not the most subtle of folk. They made a point of announcing their trips to market. It was very sweet and gave Bilbo a way of collecting his items without issue.

While that was nice of them, it left him at odds and feeling rather lonely. He liked going to market. He liked talking to other hobbits and hearing the news of the day. He loved dressing up and showing off his newest weskit or smart new trousers. Now he saw no one other than the Gamgees and Thorin.

It wasn’t going well for Thorin either. Though, his dwarf hadn’t said a thing. Once again, the Gamgees filled him in.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were losing business?” Bilbo asked one day when Thorin came home early.

“It’s not that bad, things have been slow,” Thorin said with a shrug. “Business does this from time to time. It’s giving me a chance to work on some other orders. Also I’ll have time this evening to fix that gate of yours.” Then the dwarf did that thing where he smiled he touched Bilbo’s hand or whispered something sweet and Bilbo ended up flustered all over again.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?” Thorin asked. If Bilbo hadn’t known him for ten years the innocent look might have fooled him. Might.

“You are,” Bilbo replied. “I don’t want you to lose business, not because of me. It’s not right.”

“This is not your fault. Nor is it right that you’ve been forced out of the market,” Thorin growled. “I’ve seen Hamfast bringing things up here. I know you don’t go to market anymore.”

“Yes, well, it’s giving me more time to write my books. Jora is nearby, along with Corwen, and the two of them promised several stories the next time they were around.” Bilbo prevaricated. “Besides, we could always make the trip to Bree. I have two books I would like bound and published, and it has been some time since I’ve made the trip.”

“Going to Bree will not solve the issues at hand, Bilbo.” Thorin squeezed his hand gently. “We need a decision from that uncle of yours. If only to stop id-fargul dushadush that is taking over the Shire.”

“There will be a decision soon,” Bilbo said, chewing on his lip. “Though, I’m not sure it’s going to be the one we want.” Worry gnawed at Bilbo. They hadn’t voiced their hope for the decision. On one hand it was rather obvious what they wanted. But what if they decision didn’t go their way. What then?

“The Thain shouldn’t need to be involved, or at least not the council, this was a family discussion. It’s a matter of accepting my suit. That shouldn’t have to go against a council.”

“It’s more than that, Thorin. It’s upsetting conventions and traditions that have been in place for hundreds of years. Not everyone is going to be accepting of this. A lot of hobbits are already making that quite clear.”

“Does it matter?” Thorin asked. “Does it truly matter what everyone else thinks?”

Bilbo shrugged and rubbed his head, he could feel a headache coming on and he didn’t want to get into argument. “I’m just so very tired of trying to prove myself to others, Thorin. For once I would like my life to not to be a constant battle against what I feel is right for me, and what the rest of the Shire can accept.”

Thorin pulled him into a tight hug and Bilbo returned it just as fiercely. “If I could I would change all of their minds. I’d force them to see that this isn’t really a big thing. It’s two people who care for each other. It shouldn’t be this hard.”    

“Da always said, nothing worth it was ever easy. And this is definitely worth it.”

 

*

 

_5th of ForeLythe, S.R. 1323_

_Bilbo Baggins_

_Bag End, Shire_

_From the Offices of the Thain, Isengrim II_

_A decision has been made regarding your petition to court a Mister Thorin Oakenshield, smith of the forge of Hobbiton and late of the Blue Mountains. After long consideration it is with caution that the office of the Thain accepts the petition. The laws of the Shire are absolute. Hobbits cannot marry or court another of the same sex. Your petition cannot go forward and any untoward relations must cease immediately, if you – Bilbo – wish to remain as head of household for the Baggins clan, and retain your current standing as Mister._

_However, should you be able to find sufficient proof that you are in fact a female hobbit and are willing to accept all necessary requirements thereof, Mister Oakenshield’s petition can continue apace._

_I sincerely hope that you consider all options on this. A meeting has been scheduled in two weeks to discuss this decision._

_Regards_

_Isengrim III Took, Thain_

 

Thorin wanted to storm the Great Smial. Wanted to take his sword over there and threaten each scared, sorry little hobbit until they came up with a different decision. It was ludicrous, and hurtful and Thorin couldn’t find enough words in Westron to convey it.

“Keep that up and you might be able to heat the whole smial with your tongue,” Bilbo said. The letter lay on his lap, but Thorin knew it was hardly forgotten.

“Why is this so hard for them to understand? Why is this so difficult for them to understand?” Thorin ground out between clenched teeth.

“I don’t know. Other than that marriage has always been to produce children. And that my mother did something completely against what’s done in the Shire. Not only in running away to chase after dwarves and elves, but to have the gall to raise her child as anything other than a proper hobbit.” Bilbo shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think Isengrim ever forgave her for running away when she was young.”

Thorin felt a helpless rage swell inside him. It was the same feeling he lived with in Ered Luin. It fed on the gnawing guilt that he had lived with since Dis had come to him when Kili turned ten and told him about his nephew, and how they would need a choosing stone. A choosing stone that had been sold to feed them seventy years before.

Letters and inquiries had been sent to the other Kingdoms but there had been no luck. Each winter he returned from the cities of Men disheartened as no choosing stone could be found. The few families that had them were holding onto their own and with good reason. Thorin had felt a sick guilt crawl inside him and take up residence by his heart. It was made worse the year he came home to find out Kili had started puberty without a stone.

His nephew's one saving grace was the utter acceptance from the surrounding dwarrow and the number of younger dwarrow that didn't have access to a stone. Each rumour from the hobbits, each snide remark, each cruel decision, spoke against every tenet he held dear. He had to watch as Bilbo suffered. Was reminded constantly that this treatment was not only possible but likely for his nephew. The two had twined themselves around his heart and left him fuming with impotent rage.

The talk of children didn't help matters.

“Marriage is more than children. It’s companionship. We haven’t even gotten to that part of the courtship yet. Do you want children?” Thorin scrubbed a hand through his hair.

Bilbo shrugged. I’m not sure,” he said hesitantly. “I might be capable, but I’ve never really – I don’t know.” He said rather helplessly.

Thorin reached out and threaded his fingers through Bilbo’s hair. “It’s all right if you don’t, Bilbo,” he said quietly. “I never expected to have children. I never expected to find someone I cared about enough to want to spend my life with them. Let alone become intimate.” He smiled gently. “Your Shire seems to expect that it’s a given in all relationships that children are the outcome. It’s a rather narrow world view. One that right now is hurting you.”

Bilbo stood, let out a sigh and leaned into Thorin’s hand and took the other in his. “They’re trying. They’re trying to change. It’s just not what we’d hoped.”

Thorin grunted and tugged Bilbo close enough to press his forehead against Bilbo’s. It cricked his neck, but the touch was comforting and welcome and helped to centre the maelstrom of emotion that threatened to upend his entire being.

“They’re not trying, Bilbo. They want you to conform. Conform or you can’t be happy.” Thorin swallowed. Why, when he could feel things finally turning around and in his favour for once did it have to be this hard. “This won’t make you happy. It will just hurt you. I don’t want what we have to hurt you.”

Bilbo puffed out a breath. “Silly dwarf, remember what I told you about hobbits? We don’t really deal with rulers. This is the Thain’s opinion. We’ll have a meeting to discuss things in two weeks, perhaps they’ll have come around in that time.”

“And if they haven’t? If they still want us to not be together? Or if they demand you wear a skirt and be called miss?”

“They can say what they like, but I’ve never done anything I didn’t want to do before. I don’t intend to start now. It might get a bit more difficult around here for a time. But they’ll come around. Especially when they find out that we’ll be having a dwarven wedding and not a hobbit one.” Bilbo laughed. “Oh can you imagine the stink that would cause. They’d be so incensed that your family threw a better party, they’d have to try and out do it.”

He wanted to believe Bilbo. He truly did. He wanted to believe every beautiful and trusting word that came from Bilbo’s mouth. But part of him was convinced that he wasn’t meant for happy things. It was a nice dream though, and he gave Bilbo a tentative smile, then leaned closer to rub his nose against Bilbo’s.

“If you say so. I do hope you’re right.”

“I think I’m quite right. You’ll see. There’s not a hobbit in the Shire that will be able to pass up the opportunity for a good party. This whole thing will blow over before you know it.”

 

*

 

Two weeks had passed and things had still not settled around the Shire. Bilbo was still having a bit of a time at market and with other gentlefolk. His only visitors lately were Hamfast and his the rest of the Gamgee family. The others were stiffly polite when forced to speak with him, but more often refused him service, or ignored him if they could get away with it.

Thorin’s business was still suffering, and it made Bilbo gnash his teeth. There was no need for this. Thorin and he were fine upstanding people. Thorin had proven himself to be a kind and polite dwarf time and again. And Bilbo was a Baggins for Valar’s sake.

He would just have to clear this whole thing up with the Thain and be done with it. He wore his best sky blue weskit, a lovely muslin shirt with the perfect set of ivory buttons. Over that he wore his navy velvet jacket and a pair of tan trousers. His hair and feet were brushed to a brilliant shine and he made sure his cravat was carefully tied. In short he was the perfect picture of a respectable hobbit.

Thorin wore his best as well, though he never really took to Hobbit styling and never understood the use of a weskit, or even a cravat. Bilbo had long since given up trying to educate his dwarf on fashion. Dwarven fashion was functional and Bilbo had to admit, Thorin looked lovely in his tunics and trousers. Dark colours were a pervading theme though and Bilbo itched to see if he could get Thorin into a lovely vermillion, and his colouring was perfect for a forest green.

It mattered not, he loved the dwarf anyway, regardless of his clothing choices. With a last look in the mirror he nodded once and left with Thorin to make their way through Hobbiton and over the hill to Tuckborough.

The walk was peaceful if strained through the market. No one spoke to them. Rudely or otherwise. Bilbo held his head up and he offered a firm smile to any who caught his eye. Most turned away and had the decency to blush. Others, those who didn’t seem to care about propriety, glared and humphed as if he was doing something wrong.

It rankled, and bothered and gnawed at Bilbo that these hobbits would be so rude to him. He was a good hobbit, had been respectable and polite all the years since his parents had passed. He didn’t remember them being this rude before then. Perhaps the other citizens of Hobbiton had been more circumspect when his parents had been around. Or maybe Bella and Bungo had kept the worst of it from him.

Bilbo felt their loss as a dull ache in his heart. It never really left him, but the dwarf that walked with him now had helped. More than Bilbo could ever properly convey in words. As they left the market and continued down the road that led to Tuckborough, Bilbo reached out and squeezed Thorin’s hand gently before letting it go.

They still needed to discuss things with the Thain regarding their suit, and until then, such gestures would have to be kept to a minimum.

They reached the Great Smial and were led into a smaller antechamber off the large hall. They were served food and within minutes of sitting down, Isengrim arrived. He stopped at the door long enough to look at the two of them by the table and shook his head.

“Judging by that look, I doubt this is going to be a pleasant meeting,” Isengrim said as he sat down.

“I have no idea what you mean, uncle.”

“I used to see that look all the time, from your mother. It means you don’t like what you’ve been told and I can go stuff myself.”

Bilbo spluttered and opened his mouth to make excuses when Isengrim waved a hand.

“Have a seat the two of you. Enjoy the meal at least.”

Bilbo shot a glance and Thorin and the two of them sat down on one side of the table. Bilbo noted how Isengrim watched them, noting their proximity. Bilbo took in the food in front of them and filled his plate, he was still a hobbit, and the Great Smial kitchens were one of the best in all of the Shire. No matter the conversation, he wasn’t missing a chance at having a couple of the meat pies.

“My decision stands, Bilbo. As you are, I cannot approve Master Oakenshield’s suit.” Isengrim said. Isengrim was blunt like his father, but he lacked the charisma that the Old Took had in spade. Gerontius would have said something similar but by the time he finished you were thanking him for his honesty. Isengrim had missed those lessons.

Bilbo finished off his meat pie, ostensibly ignoring his uncle whilst he enjoyed his food and gathered his thoughts. “To be quite blunt uncle. This was only brought to your attention because Longo decided to listen to spurious rumour and then had the gall to my home and slander not only my good name, but that of my mother. Thorin and I thought it best to seek you out to help calm things down.

“Considering the state of the Shire lately, it has done precisely the opposite. Your opinions have been duly noted. But in three months’ time I shall be of age, and I can accept or reject any suit put to me.” Bilbo picked up another meat pie and bit into it, enjoying the burst of savoury spices. “Bless the Valar, these are good.”

“Your union would not be recognized, Bilbo. And Longo could demand Bag End.”

“Let him try. It was a dower gift from my father to my mother. As such it does not belong to the Baggins family other than myself. Should anyone try to take it, it will revert to mother’s eldest living relative. Which, in this case would be you, if I was seen as not fit.”

Everyone was silent for a long moment and Isengrim took time to quaff some of his wine. “Reading up on the laws have you?”

Bilbo gave his uncle a thin smile. “I’ve had a lot of time this last month and a half. I thought it best to acquaint myself with the laws that could be used against us.”

“Bilbo, I don’t want to say no to this,” Isengrim hissed. “Your mother created an absolute stink when you were born and told us you were to choose what you were. Choose to be a woman, and this whole mess goes away. No need for upsetting anyone.”

“Just upsetting to me,” Bilbo replied. “I’m not a woman, uncle. I never have been. It would be a lie. And I will not enter into a courtship with Thorin under false pretense.”

“What false pretense? Everyone will know. It will just keep things simple. Put on a dress, answer to Miss for a year, let your hair grow out and put some ringlets in. It’s not that hard. Next year you can get married and go back to wearing trousers for all we care. Half the Brandybuck girls wear trousers anyway.”

Thorin had been quiet throughout everything. Enough that Bilbo had nearly forgotten he was there. Until Thorin slammed his goblet down on the table. Bilbo turned and caught the anger, the deep red in his features and the curl to his lip. He reached out and touched Thorin’s hand gently. It had the same effect as dumping cold water on Thorin whose breath left in a huff and his shoulders relaxed visibly. Bilbo gave him a small smile and turned to look back at his uncle.

“All right, uncle. You first.”

“What?”

“I said you first. Put on a dress, let your hair grow and add some ringlets and don’t forget to go by Miss Took.”

“That’s not the same thing at all Bilbo.”

“Really, is it not? Why?”

“I’m not a girl.”

Bilbo waited just a moment to see if the conversation would seep in, but his uncle’s continued confusion did not clear and Bilbo let out a frustrated sigh.

“Neither am I, uncle. And to suggest that I should be comfortable and accept those stipulations, when you wouldn’t expect anyone else to accept them is hurtful. Horrible even.”

Isengrim turned beet red and stood suddenly, knocking his chair to the floor. “I have made my decision, Bilbo. You will not receive even an ounce of support from anyone if you proceed with this.”

Bilbo took a deep breath and nodded his head. “I cannot, nor will I change who I am, uncle. And I care very deeply for Master Oakenshield. I will not enter into a courtship with him under false pretense. I will not change who I am to make things easier for others.”

“This is your mother’s fault. Leaving the Shire and getting mixed up with all sorts of wrong folk. Put all sorts of ideas into her head. Who knows what kind of elf magic was used on her. It’s why you were caul born. Should have drowned you like they used to do with caul borns.”

“ISENGRIM!” Donnamira stood in the doorway behind them.

“Don’t you start with me sister, I’ve had enough of this, and I will not have any more. Bilbo Baggins, know this, if you choose to disregard my edicts, you will be officially shunned by the community.”

“If you must,” Bilbo managed. He gripped the arms of the chair tightly to still the trembling that threatened to overtake him.

Isengrim left the room and slammed the round door behind him with an echoing bang. Bilbo let go of the chair and with care stood and fixed his weskit and jacket.

“Bibo-“ Donnamira started.

Bilbo held up his hand. “Thank you for you hospitality, aunt. If you will excuse me, I must be going about my day.”

“He didn’t mean it, Bilbo. He’ll come around eventually. This is just a lot to process. You have to understand that we’re not used to all of this.”

“Whether he meant them or not, Mistress Boffin, they were said, and they have hurt nonetheless. To suggest that drowning a child would be preferable to –“ Thorin cut himself off, clenching his fists at his sides. He let a sharp breath out and shook his head. “I am not nearly as polite as Mister Baggins, so I shall leave now.”

They left the Great Smial and Bilbo took the long way around that avoided the Market and as many hobbits as possible. He didn’t want to see anyone else for a while. Not until he could get himself under control. Confound it all, he thought. This wasn’t how he wanted things to go. Was all of this really because of some elf magic? His mother never told him of that, nor had Lord Elrond when he had visited all those years ago.

Perhaps he should write them, see what they thought of it all. But, dwarves had the right to choose, and they weren’t steeped in magic. Were they? Oh Valar, this was just ridiculous. If he chose to continue as he was he would not only lose all respectability within the Shire but he would be shunned. Completely ostracized. An outcast unable to take part in anything related to hobbit-life.

They couldn’t stop him from going to market, but they would charge him thrice as much as they did now. Or they would find ways not to serve him. He would not be allowed to go to any of the parties, and he would no longer to have people over for tea, they would simply stop coming.

Bilbo looked over at the Dwarf who walked beside him. Thorin was the picture of barely checked rage. His face was drawn and red and his hands were clenched so tightly Bilbo wondered if he was breaking the skin with his nails. He would suffer too, lose his business perhaps. Isengrim might try to take the deed from him, though that he been purchased through Bilbo’s mother so that was unlikely.

Still, he would lose out on necessary income for his family. And then what was keeping him here? Thorin would go home and Bilbo would be all alone. Bilbo let out a heartsick gasp at the thought and grabbed Thorin’s hand. Without explanation, he pulled Thorin off the main road and into Greenhill Woods. Once out of sight of prying eyes he pulled Thorin into a desperate hug.

“I don’t care.” He whispered firmly. “They can ignore me, shun me, call me an outcast, but I do not care. They haven’t been there for me before now. You have.”

Thorin’s arms wrapped around him tightly. “Bilbo, these are your people, your family. I do not want to be the reason for them to hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” He whispered over and over, half desperate. He needed to explain, convey what he felt, the fear at the thought of losing Thorin was so much worse than what Hobbiton could do to him. But for all his verbosity he couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t say anything other than ‘I don’t care’.

Cool lips pressed against his temple and Bilbo shuddered in Thorin’s arms. He lifted his head from the dwarf’s shoulder and stood on tiptoe, brushing his lips against Thorin’s. It was horribly improper but perhaps it would explain what he could not.

Thorin stilled and his entire body went rigid for the briefest of seconds. Bilbo feared he had dreadfully overstepped and pulled back. Thorin followed and pressed his dry, thin lips against Bilbo’s. Thorin’s hands went around him firmly and Bilbo shivered Thorin’s fingers threaded through his hair.   

The kiss was awkward, Bilbo didn’t know what to do, and neither it seemed did Thorin, and they just stood there, lips pressed together not moving. But it was soft, and Bilbo felt Thorin’s heart thudding just as erratically as his, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> id-fargul dushadush - lit. the rumour like tiny hate (petty rumours and hatred)


	14. Spring Will Come Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reactions from the Shire, and a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love in the world goes to [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist) for her beta help and throwing rocks. She just rocks! Go give her fics the love and attention they deserve. 
> 
> Standard warnings apply. Feel free to poke me if I haven't tagged for something. BTW this chapter is huge @ 9382 words. 
> 
> I changed my tumblr name! [Mephestopheles-under-the-oaktree](http://Mephestopheles-under-the-oaktree.tumblr.com)

 

In the weeks that followed, the Shire shunned Bilbo. Thorin didn’t know what a shunning entailed or whether it was some kind of ritual that required a gathering. It was in fact worse that a ritualized thing. It was subtle. Insidious. A creeping of tiny offenses and hurts that collected on Bilbo like moss or lichen on rock.

Bilbo was strong as he ever was and kept his shoulders high in those beginnings weeks. He was carried forward by his decision as much as his pride. A decade living in the company of one Bilbo Baggins had left him quite convinced of Bilbo’s strength.

The problem escalated when the Gamgee family started facing the same issues. Their continued regard and interaction with the residents of Bag End had set them apart as well. Now they faced many of the same issues with acquiring items from market. Prices were always high, or the products were inferior.

Leave it to the hobbits to shun someone but never let them starve. Not completely. His forge saw very little business from the hobbits. What kept him afloat was purchases from the Rangers. Their friendship with Bilbo had led to a business arrangement of sorts and it kept him busy at the forge most days.

He didn’t care about the forge. It was a pretense. An excuse to be close to Bilbo in those years while he waited for him to come of age. The entire Shire could ignore him, whisper behind their backs about him and he wouldn’t care. It was something he was used to, and about time by his reckoning. A decade was the most he and his kin had ever gotten from a village or town of Men in those long ago days of exile and starvation.

He had thought the Shire would be different. Better. Thorin should have known better than to assume such good in them. Bilbo was a rarity of their kind, and he was suffering for it. For Thorin. Despite Bilbo’s assurances that this would pass, Thorin knew it could get much worse.

Bilbo’s birthday was in three weeks. His coming of age. It was to be a spectacular event and one celebrated by the whole Shire. Thorin had been watching as Bilbo planned and prepared and made lists about what he needed to purchase and who he needed to invite. The invitations had gone out two weeks ago.

Bilbo had yet to receive a single reply. Any appointments he made at the tailor for either of them had been rescheduled only to be cancelled last minute. The bakery couldn’t make Bilbo’s cake, and the Baggins family to a one had stopped speaking to the young hobbit.

Thorin tried. Mahal wept, he tried so hard to be there. But he could see it, clear as the white of hot metal, his presence was hurting his One. Bilbo tried to deny it. But each day Thorin saw Bilbo’s shoulders sag just a bit more. Watch his smile dim as each day passed without a reply, or another appointment was cancelled.

Bilbo was spending money left, right, and centre, ordering items from Bree, toys for the little ones, and other knickknacks and mathoms for all the Shire. All the while, his tenants were holding back on their rent, making late payments or not having enough. Thorin had known that Bilbo’s family had been respected and were of a noble class, but the number of rents that Bilbo actually collected was quite astounding.

And was only noticed in their absence. Thorin had taken to working in the forge late. After the sun had set and the air cooled down. It had become a habit in the last week to keep later hours. He was working on a gift for Bilbo, something special. He had very little mithril to work with, but he still had some of his mother’s supply - a couple of ingots - not enough to fashion a sword from. But perhaps a small dagger. Bilbo would probably use it as a letter opener.

Thorin smiled at the thought. He was surprised daily by the love he bore for such a gentle soul. That, that same hobbit returned those affections was a miracle Thorin would thank Mahal for every day of his life.

He spent far longer on the tiny blade than any of his previous work, endlessly heating and hammering and layering the mithril. Cooling and reheating, until it finally started taking the shape he envisioned.

Fashioning the blade and hilt took him weeks of late nights working to shape the metal exactly how he saw it in his head. He used the time in front of the blistering heat to forget the pettiness of the other hobbits, to remind himself that he was a dwarf and dwarven craft was something to be proud of. That it was more than just a shiny thing. That each engraving and each cut gem had a meaning.

Thorin knew that Hobbit birthdays were different from dwarven celebrations and that his hobbit was used to giving gifts than receiving them. But Dwarrow had their own traditions, and the gift of a blade on the coming of age was a special thing indeed. He wanted to share everything that he was with Bilbo. Wanted to show him that dwarrow were more than what those elf books he read claimed.

There was so much he wanted to show and teach Bilbo. But something stayed his hand, thickened his throat and made the words turn to cement. Each thing he taught Bilbo, each secret he shared with Bilbo was pulling his One further and further from the life he was used to. Separating him from the other hobbits. Segregating him from the others. It was becoming a case of ‘us versus them’, and Thorin would have been happy for it to continue, if it didn’t also seem to be breaking the spirit of his One.

Each time he felt the guilt gnaw at him again, he worked on the blade. He added each sliver of rose quartz and peridot in a careful arrangement across the hilt. They were small and polished smooth so as not to cut Bilbo’s hand.

He finally finished the blade the night before Bilbo’s birthday. In the wee hours, when all of Hobbiton was asleep, Thorin banked the fires in his forge and walked the short distance through the empty streets of the Shire. It was still warm, though September was nearing its end. Soon the weather would turn. He had to go back to Ered Luin for one more winter. He needed to make arrangements. He still wasn’t sure what those arrangements were, whether he would come back here to live with Bilbo or if he was getting things in order for Bilbo to come live with him. Neither of them discussed it, and Thorin was hesitant.

The Shire was rolling hills and greenery and flowers as plentiful as stars. Ered Luin was a wasted mountain that was crumbling back into the sea. It had its beauty in the dwarven craftsmanship that echoed throughout the halls. It had its people which were a good, proud and strong people. But it wasn’t green, and it lacked the sun and flowers. It wasn’t someplace he could picture Bilbo being happy. Thorin clutched the box that held his gift tighter. If only Erebor could be reclaimed. If only there wasn’t a dragon squatting there. He could bring his people back from the brink of disaster and ruin. He could take Bilbo there with him and show him the scope of dwarven achievement. If his One still needed green and growing things in the East, he would reshape the mountain itself to give him a garden.

Perhaps that was the key then. Remind the other kingdoms of his right to rule, of Erebor’s need to be reclaimed not only to show the rightful rule of the House of Durin, but for all dwarrow. Then he could take Bilbo away from all the pettiness, the bickering gossip. He could show Bilbo his true worth.

He rounded the slope to Bag End and noticed a flickering light through one of the windows and he smiled. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He’d start the plans this winter. It might take a couple of years before they could wed, but dwarven courtships lasted years, sometimes decades. A prolonged courtship would show he was true in his affections. He had enough money set aside now, by next spring he could launch an attack on that wyrm.

Then he and Bilbo could be crowned and no one would ever shun his hobbit again. They would never dare think about hurting him in such a way, not with all the might of the Dwarrow behind him.

 

*

 

Thorin was ignoring him. Not overtly. Not in any way that he could really prove. But there it was. Plain as the rest of the Shire and their shunning. Bilbo didn’t blame him, not really. He needed the work, needed to make enough money for his family. It hurt though. More than Mrs. Bolger rescheduling his suit fitting for the twelfth time. More than Mr. Tunnelly not being able to make his cake.

Those he had expected. When news of his outburst spread throughout the Shire, everything had started to fall apart. He was defying the Thain and carrying on with a dwarf of all beings. But the thought of losing Thorin, of giving up on something that was still so wonderfully new and special hurt more than their shunning ever could. The Gamgee family was as kind as ever and did their best, though they too suffered. Bilbo wanted to yell, to pitch and true and un-Baggins-like fit at the obstinacy of Hobbits. They didn’t let him starve, not completely, no, that would be very unhobbitish of them indeed.

But they mixed up his appointments, broke or accidentally ruined things. They were late with payments, missed others and in the case of the more hardline families, outright refused to pay him.

Bilbo was tired, so dreadfully tired of all of this. And he still has his birthday to plan. It was his coming of age and generally the family would handle such a momentous occasion. But his Took relations were caught between a rock and hard place. They were required to follow Isengrim’s decree and so they ignored him.

As best as Tooks could. His younger cousins made more frequent visits with baskets of items here and there. But they never stayed for long. His invitations to his party went unanswered, and he had invited everyone. Bilbo was too stubborn to cancel, and continued on blithely. He handed over more money than was wise and sent for things from Bree; sweets, and extra supplies, toys and mathoms for gifts.

In the week leading up the party, he started baking and cleared out one of his cold pantries just for the party food. Anything that could keep he made ahead of time. He devoted all his time to the kitchen and preparing for the party.

Otherwise he would pay too much attention to Thorin’s absences. He was gone most evenings, working at the forge late into the night. He would be around a bit more in the day but even then they didn’t speak much.

Thorin kept fixing items in the house. Bilbo had tried to get him interested in the garden, but that had been a failed effort and ended with a lot of yelling and his poor azaleas had suffered for it. He knew Thorin was angry on his behalf. Bilbo couldn’t explain it though. There hadn’t been a shunning in the Shire in fifty years and no one spoke of it. The family that had been shunned left, moved to Bree and were never spoken of again.

Things wouldn’t get to that point, Bilbo was sure. It was just a bit of silliness and things would blow over. If he hosted his birthday right, everything would be just fine and all the hobbits would go about talking about the party and things would be back to normal. If things went according to plan the whole shire would be tickled and then they’d be begging at the door to plan his and Thorin’s nuptials.

Of course, that was assuming Thorin still wished to go ahead with the courtship.

It was hard to tell. Bilbo liked to think he understood his dwarf. Knew what made him tick and how to read between the growls. But the last few weeks were hard. Thorin was being very secretive, and so very distant.

He had very few people to talk to and share his concerns. Bilbo realized he was stalling.

He should just speak with Thorin and find out what was going on. Perhaps he had received bad news from home. Giver, please let it not be that. Thorin’s family was terribly important to him and Bilbo couldn’t stomach the thought of any harm coming to them. He’d only ever heard about them, or read about them in the letters he and Thorin exchanged over the years. But they were as close to him as if they were his own family.

Bilbo wanted to clear the air between them, find out what was causing all the tension. But he was still a coward. Still too scared to disrupt the fragile peace inside the smial. There were so few places left in his life where he could find peace, Bilbo couldn’t disturb the one place he had left.

So he held his tongue. And privately fretted when Thorin didn’t come home until well after the dark. Bilbo didn’t push him to talk during the times they were together and kept the questions firmly locked away so he wouldn’t ruin what sanctuary they had. He baked, he gardened, and he fought with his tenants over their rents.

Bilbo went to bed exhausted every night, but unable to sleep. His mind raced with worry, terrified that Thorin would get tired of the churlish behaviours of the hobbits and go back home. Bilbo tried to tell himself they weren’t all bad. Tried to remind himself that his friends, the Gamgees’, were good folk. But they were a tiny comfort in a garden of nettles.

Bilbo would eventually fall asleep, but his dreams were fraught with nightmares. He couldn’t remember most of them, but they left him covered in sweat and chilled to the bone by morning. By all that was green, Bilbo hoped the party would change things. He hoped the other hobbits would see how stupid and petty they were being. He wasn’t asking for much was he? They had accepted his parent’s assertion of his sex years ago, and that didn’t truly seem to be a sticking point. Neither did Thorin’s dwarf status seem to cause any real ruckus. No, everything seemed to centre fully on the fact that Thorin and he were male. His relatives were of the opinion that if he just wore a dress things would be okay.

It wasn’t wearing the dress that was the problem. Dresses were probably very fine clothing, indeed. But hobbits attached so much significance to clothing, a dress was more than a dress. A dress was Miss Baggins. A dress was leaving Bag End for the Great Smial and living with Isengrim until he was wed. It was having to see that stuff shirted of a hobbit every day and smile and bite his tongue on a rant against the idiocy of the entire business because hobbit lasses just didn’t do those things.

It was listening to other hobbits call him miss, when he wasn’t a miss. It was all the things he wasn’t. And though it might make life in Hobbiton easier for those who lived in Hobbiton. It would not make it easier for Bilbo. It would make it far worse.

Bilbo wanted to share this with Thorin. Wanted to try to explain some of this to him, but again, he could not find the words. Every time they were near each other, Bilbo just wanted to be close, to listen to Thorin as he spoke, his secret language peppering more and more of their conversations. Bilbo filed away every endearment Thorin spoke to him. Amrâlimê, Ghivashel, Larjd'amral, kurdêl, ebnel, ibinlakhdur, ulkhadunurtê, Nu'ibnul, hulwbasân, mesmel du'kurdu. Bilbo had no idea what they meant. Not yet. He hadn’t been able to put together enough of the whispered and guttural language to hazard a guess.

But at night, when everything was terribly quiet and he felt the darkness weigh heavy against him, he would whisper those words again and again. A mantra against the dark and heartless world the Shire had become. A reminder that no matter how distant Thorin was right now, things would change and get better.   

He’d repeat them until his heart stopped its nervous fluttering and he could breathe calmly once more. Bilbo whispered them into the silence of his room, even as his eyelids grew heavy and his voice slurred with exhaustion. Dreams didn’t plague him so much on those nights, though Bilbo refused to contemplate why that might be.

He had more pressing things to concern him. His birthday was on the morrow and he had more dishes to prepare and the last of the gifts to wrap up and label. The work kept him occupied, and he repeated his checklist a dozen times to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. It was dreadfully repetitive but it kept him from worrying a hole in the floor.

He had too many things to worry about. Too many things that could steal his concentration and leave him with entirely too much work to do and no time to complete it. So Bilbo went over his lists, and made stew, and went over his lists some more.

When all that was done he made more cupcakes, and beat icing until his hands were numb. He set everything up in his cold pantry and made sure all things were ready for the morrow. And in the deepest recesses of himself, too timid and frightened to mention it aloud, he hoped all of these efforts were silly and overzealous, for surely the rest of the Shire would be busy making their own things for the party.

For that was how it was supposed to be done.

 

*

 

The morning dawned cold, but wonderfully sunny with a lovely breeze from the west. Sunlight parted the clouds and shone onto the Shire in a multitudinous array of greens and vibrant oranges and pinks. The centre of Hobbiton was lovely. It was also quite empty. No tables had been set up, no tents erected, no signs. It was as if it was another ordinary day in Hobbiton, and not the birthday of one of the more prominent residents.

Certainly not the coming of age birthday of one of most prominent residents.

It was nearing luncheon and still nothing had been done. The market was bustling with hobbits doing a fair business. The farmers and other sellers kept their eyes firmly away from the Party Tree, ignoring it so completely they were calling attention to the conspicuous absence of the usual revelry. The other hobbits that mingled and made purchases watched as the sun climbed and still nothing was done.

The whispering had started just after second breakfast. Most hobbits had taken the proclamation as it was, a private tiff amongst the family, and expected that it would have been sorted by now. Young Bilbo would come to her senses and then they’d have a grand party and celebrate her impending nuptials, even if her intended was a dwarf.

But the young hobbit was just as stubborn as her mother, and the Thain was even worse in his old age. This whole sordid mess had gotten quite out of hand as far as the gentle and respectable folk of the Shire were concerned. It was all well and good when a young lass was playing as a child to wear more boyish things, but to carry on so, and for so many a year. It just wasn’t done.

But neither was not setting up for a birthday party. Especially one of such importance. The general consensus was that while it was deplorable behaviour on the part of both Bilbo and the Thain, the ruling still stood, and there wasn’t a hobbit on this side of Bree that would dare break protocol.

Lamentable, really. The Baggins family had always had such lovely parties. The Greendragon Inn saw an upswing in popularity that morning as many a hobbit stopped in for half a pint and something to nibble on while they exchanged gossip and mourned the lack of Mr Tunnelly’s prize cakes.

Rorimac Brandybuck stood on the hill overlooking the Party Tree and clenched his fists. A tug on his shirt caught his attention and he looked down at his little sister. “What is it Prim?”

“Why’s there no party, Rory? Cos’ Bilbo’s birfday is today, yeah? Where’s his party?”

“Thain said he can’t have one unless he follows the rules, Prim.” Rory said and hoisted her onto his hip.

“S’not fair. Bilbo’s gonna be sad, isn’t he? S’not fair at all, everyone should have parties. S’pecially Bilbo. He always gets the best presents.”

Rory looked over to the Greendragon where his father was busy with town business and would likely be occupied for quite some time. The tween nodded. _Right then, best get this started._

“You’re right Prim. It’s not fair, so you and I are going to give cousin Bilbo a birthday.”

“Yay!” She cried and wriggled from his arms.

“You go tell the young ones I need extra hands. And don’t mention it to the grownups all right?”

“’Kay!” She sprinted off and around the bend to one of the large fields where the younger hobbits played, her blond pigtails bouncing behind her.

Rory rolled up his sleeves and went over to the storage barn at the corner of the market field. There he started pulling out the trestles and carried them until he had them set up around the field. Another joined him as he reached for one of the tables and he looked up to see Lobelia Bracegirdle. She gave Rory a look that he didn’t want to trifle with, and helped carry the first of many large tables.

Prim returned with the other young hobbits and set up the other tables. Prim danced and shouted instructions from the middle of the field, telling the boys and girls where to put the tables and how to set up the tent. There was no sign, and very little time to even make one, but they made due with everything else that came out of the shed, including streamers and some decorations from previous parties. Once the tables were set up, Rory gathered the young ones around him.

“All right, we need to brighten this place up and we’re going to need food. Saridas, Dodinas, Lobelia, go see if Mister Gamgee knows what Bilbo was planning, I think cousin Bilbo has supplies up at his smial. See if we can get in touch with Mister Thorin he might have some ideas as well. Asphodel and Dinodas, you and the others go collect as many flowers as you can. Bright ones, lots of forget me nots, yeah? We might not be able to make this as pretty as some other birthdays, but flowers will do in a pinch.”

“What are we doing Rory?” Prim asked as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“You and me, little miss, are going to get ourselves some beer. Can’t have a good party without some good ale.” He hoisted the faunt onto his hip and the others scurried off.

 

*

 

The morning had started off wonderfully. Bilbo woke to the smell of bacon cooking. A surprise since he did most, if not all, of the cooking. Thorin had lamented his lack of culinary skills, but Bilbo always liked being in the kitchen, it was a soothing activity and it always brought him closer to his mother.

But the smell of bacon was enough to get the young hobbit out of bed and down the hall to the kitchen. There by the stove was his dwarf, dressed simply in trousers and a tunic that was loosely belted at the waist. His hair was pulled back from his face enough that Bilbo spied the curve of his ears.

Thorin hadn’t noticed him yet as he busied about the kitchen and plated bacon and added eggs one by one to the bubbling fat in the bottom of the pan. The kettle whistled over the fire and Bilbo hurried to remove it from its hook. Thorin reached over him and took it off the fire barehanded.

“I’ve got it,” Thorin said, his voice still thick from sleep. He set the kettle down and poured two cups of tea and set the kettle aside. Bilbo let out a squeak as Thorin pulled him close and pressed a kiss against his temple. “Happy Birthday, Kurdêl,” he whispered into Bilbo’s hair.

Bilbo flushed and closed his eyes against the sting of sudden tears. He wasn’t an emotional hobbit, he was very much his father’s son when it came to sharing emotions. But there was something so genuine about Thorin’s affection.

“Thank you,” he managed. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Nonsense, birthdays are an important thing, and I’ll have yours start off right. Have a seat and drink your tea, the eggs are almost ready.”

Bilbo did has he was bid and took his favourite seat. He added a nice dollop of milk and some sugar to his tea and sipped it as he watched Thorin work in the kitchen. All too soon a plate of bacon and eggs was set in front of him. There was even juice and some left over berries he had picked, toast that was fried up in the left over bacon fat, and even some lovely left over baked beans.

An altogether perfect breakfast. It was a little charred in places, and the bacon was rather crisp, but Thorin had such an apprehensive look to him that Bilbo just smiled and tucked in. They ate in silence for the time, the only sound the scrape of knife and fork against ceramic. It was companionable, comfortable. It felt like the earlier days before they had confessed so many things to each other. Bilbo had hoped this ease would return between them, had worried it had fled in the aftermath of such confessions and decisions. His parents’ marriage had looked so easy and comfortable that he had assumed all relationships were like that. The last few weeks had left him with an aching worry in his gut that he and Thorin would never have that ease, would not be allowed it, whether by outside influence or their own fumbling.

Perhaps he was putting too much emphasis on such a simple gesture. But Thorin looked so peaceful this morning. His features softened, not a worn and distracted as they had been in the last few weeks.

The comfortable silence was not meant to last and as breakfast finished, Thorin reached under his seat and set a wooden box on the table beside him.

“What’s this?” Bilbo asked and ran his fingers across the fine grain. It was cherry, with a relief engraving of an oak tree. A script of some kind was carved around the base, though he wasn’t sure what it said, it looked like the runic letters Bilbo had spied on several of Thorin’s missives to and from home. “It’s beautiful, Thorin.”

“It’s your birthday gift,” Thorin said, “And before you say it, I know your tradition is to give gifts on one’s birthday. So consider this both a birthday gift, and a courting gift.” Thorin looked positively terrified, and his whole speech came out in a rush like he’d been practicing it for days. “Open it.”

Bilbo couldn’t keep his fingers from tracing the delicate markings and the inscriptions on the box and he let out a soft laugh. “What, there’s more?”

“The box is not your gift, it’s what’s inside.”

Bilbo blinked and pushed aside his plate and tea cup, bringing the box closer. It was heavy and very well crafted. He released the clever clasp and lifted the top of the box and let out a gasp. “Oh my!”

Inside, presented on dark cloth was a bright knife. Bigger than one of his kitchen blades, and certainly more delicate. The metal was almost white where the light glinted off its surface. It had a wickedly sharp point and looked deadly. Down near the base though, oh the base, pink and green gems dotted around in a careful spray that almost looked like flowers, though Bilbo wasn’t sure why kind they were supposed to represent. He carefully lifted the blade from the box and the hilt fit his palm perfectly.

“Do you like it?”

“Thorin, it is beautiful,” he whispered. “Where did you find it?”

Thorin cleared his throat. “I made it, Bilbo.”

“You? Oh Thorin!” He swallowed thickly and turned the blade over in his hands. Now, he wasn’t one for weaponry of any kind, though Thorin had taught him enough not to skewer himself with a sword. But he could appreciate the hard work, the dedication and the craft that went into such a piece. He had seen Thorin’s work before, in his copper pots and some of the items he’d made for the folk of the Shire. But this, oh Valar, Thorin’s talents were being utterly wasted in Hobbiton. His vision blurred and his hands trembled slightly.

“Bilbo, did I upset you? I’m sorry,--“ Thorin started, his native language taking over as he attempted to apologize.

Bilbo set the blade carefully back in the box and leaned closer to press his lips to Thorin’s. “I love it, and you have not upset me,” he managed. The table was in the way and leaning the way he had to was incredibly awkward, but he continued to press his lips to Thorin’s and threaded his fingers through the dwarf’s thick hair.

Thorin let out a gasp and in the next instant Bilbo found himself in Thorin’s lap and the table pushed away from them. The kiss was just as awkward as their first, mostly lips and clacking teeth, but Thorin’s arms were around him tightly and Thorin’s shoulders trembled under Bilbo’s hands. The soft noises that escaped from between their lips sent heat to pool low in his belly and spread through his extremities.

It took several tries to break the kiss for air. Bilbo didn’t want to stop and neither did Thorin. Between breaths Thorin growled Khuzdul endearments, and Bilbo shivered with each one.

“You need to tell me what they mean,” He said and returned his lips to Thorin’s. Someone had the bright idea to add tongues to their exploration, and Bilbo let out a moan and tugged on Thorin’s hair. Thorin’s hands tightened on his hips and one slid up his back into Bilbo’s hair.

A loud knock resounded through the smial. Bilbo and Thorin separated like scalded cats and Bilbo tumbled to the floor in an undignified lump, his nightwear rucked up and twisted around his legs. He found it hard to catch his breath and it took him several long seconds to collect himself enough to tug his nightshirt down to more appropriate levels.

Thorin wasn’t doing much better, his face was red as a tomato and he trembled and gasped as much as Bilbo did. A few kisses had them nearly undone. Bilbo felt like a tween, then giggled a bit hysterically. Today was the first day he wasn’t a tween, and he didn’t know the first thing about what they were doing.

“Mister Bilbo? Happy Birthday Mister Bilbo I just wanted to wish you a – what’s going on in here now?”

Hamfast had the worst timing out of all hobbits across all of Middle Earth. Bilbo managed to get to his feet, wobbling a little and bracing himself against the table. “Nothing is going on here, Hamfast. Thank you for the birthday wishes. Now if you’ll excuse us. I would very much like to continue doing nothing.”

Thorin coughed and if anything the dwarf managed to get redder, but he still hadn’t left his chair and his hands were clenched at his thighs. Overall it was a lovely picture, one Bilbo would very much like to explore again. After all, it was his birthday. And considering the courting gift he had just received, they were practically married by Shire standards.

“Nope. No way, you two are already thinning the patience of everyone. I’ll not have more talk happen ‘round the two of you.” Hamfast said, adjusting his work hat. “I’m your friend, and as such I’m going to make sure this is done right. You’ll thank me, later. Mark my words.” Hamfast nudged Bilbo out of the kitchen. “Go make yourself presentable. Mister Thorin and I have business to attend elsewhere.”

“Mister Gamgee that isn’t necessary. We’ll be fine,” Thorin said, once he found his voice. It was rough and cracked a bit and Bilbo had to bite his lip. Oh by all that was Green, confusticate that hobbit.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you two. I’m quite sure you have each other’s best interests at heart. But you’re not thinking clearly. So, it’s a good thing I’m here to make sure you follow the protocols.” Hamfast nodded once. “Up you get Mister Thorin, there’s plenty of work to be done.”

 

*

 

The rest of Bilbo’s morning had gone to pot quickly after Hamfast and Thorin left. He had dressed, cleaned the kitchen, puttered around the house some, but in the end he’d had to go outside to collect his mail.

Which had been empty, the same as the party field. Every time he went to a window to spy outside he would run back in into the main room and run his fingers over the cherry wood box, and its lovely engravings.

It was approaching luncheon and still there was nothing out by the party tree. His office was full of hand wrapped gifts in multicoloured tissue paper. The kind he could only get from Bree on special order. His larder was full of food; cakes and cookies, stews and casseroles, all made from scratch. There were  candies and sweets he had brought in. They were all there waiting to go outside and be enjoyed by the partygoers.

There were no partygoers. There were no decorations in the field. No tables had been setup. There were no hobbits milling about and laughing as they set up the big tent. His mailbox was empty.

Bilbo tried to keep his mind occupied on other tasks. He kept busy in the kitchen cleaning and scrubbing his mother’s crockery. Then he turned to polishing the silver. Once he finished dusting, he was sweaty and dirty and needed to wash himself up again so he took off to the bath to do that.

Nothing he did could settle him. Not even the lovely jasmine scented soap he used. He kept worriedly fixating on the goings on outside, or lack thereof. Yes, he and his uncle had a bit of a falling out, but falling outs had happened in the shire for years. Every family had their issues. Never to the point of a party being cancelled. Was he being too stubborn? He wasn’t asking for special consideration, he was asking for the same consideration as the rest of the Shire.

He was wearing a hole in mental floorboards the way he kept going over these things. It wasn’t solving anything, and just made his stomach hurt. He dried off from the bath, bound his breasts and set about dressing in his party best. Today he would need all the armour he could wear.

 

*

 

Thorin was ready to strangle any hobbit that got into his path. He prided himself on being a very reasonable dwarf. Despite Bilbo’s assertions to the opposite, he did not have that much of a temper, and he was very understanding of the ways of the folk around him and their oddities. Today, however, he would have cheerfully lined every single hobbit up and strangled the lot of them one by one.

Starting with Hamfast. Or perhaps the Thain. Both were high on his list for disparate reasons. The Thain and the ‘gentlefolk’ of Hobbiton were of a single mind and it took him very little time to notice the peculiarity when he set foot from the smial that morning.

“Right shame it is,” Hamfast said as he led them to his smial. “Not a single hobbit has bothered to start setting up. No one wants to be that hobbit that goes against the Thain.”

“So they’re going to let Bilbo’s coming of age go by unremarked?” Thorin asked. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous to you perhaps. But it’s actually worse than that Mister Thorin. Coming of age is a big thing to us folk, as I imagine it is for all races. But here, it’s more than just that, the family is supposed to handle the party for the hobbit’s Coming of Age. They’re supposed to order the cakes and organize the others hobbits, so everyone knows who’s bringing what.

“The only thing the young hobbit is supposed to be concerned with is sending out invitations, answering replies, and of course making sure they have all the gifts.” Hamfast took a seat on his bench and offered some tobacco for Thorin’s pipe. He didn’t speak as he lit it, and took a couple of good solid puffs before he continued. Thorin for his part kept silent, but the more he heard, the less he liked it.

“If Bella or Bungo were still alive, there wouldn’t be an issue at all. They would have handled the party and Bilbo could have handled his gifts no problem. But because they’re not living, the responsibility falls to either family, whosoever wishes to claim the right of it. Longo could because he’s the eldest Baggins family and it would be perfectly in his right to host such an event, but the general assumption was that the Tooks were going to lay claim on young Bilbo and they were going to throw him his party.

“But since their argument, not the Thain, nor any of the Took clan have done anything to handle the event. The Baggins are angry because Longo made a complete arse of himself and he knows it. The whole Shire knows it. Of course there are other cousins and relatives that could take over, but most people are thinking that this is just another one of those Took things and it’ll blow over and before you know it everything will be set up and all’s forgiven.”

Thorin looked out at the empty field and bit the end of his pipe so hard he thought he might crack it. “They’re not going to are they?” He didn’t need an answer, it was rather plain from the look of things and he could feel a sick heavy feeling settle in his stomach. ‘This is my fault.’

“Well now… _They_  might not. But if you look way over yonder, you’ll see someone is.” Hamfast said pointing to the opposite side of the field. “Looks like that young Brandybuck boy, Rorimac, has made the decision for everyone, claiming Bilbo as one of them.” Hamfast sat back and took a couple of puffs.

“Who’s the one in all the pink and frills?” Thorin asked as they watched the young hobbits scurry about below.

“Bless the hair on my feet, that’s Lobelia. Bit of an uptight one that. We all used to be friends when we were young. She hasn’t spoken to Bilbo in years. Guess even she has her limits on what’s acceptable.”

Hamfast tapped out his pipe and stood. “We should get the food down there soon. I see a bunch of running hobbits coming up this way and it’s probably for the best if we start sending them down with stuff.” Hamfast cast a glance his way. “I can trust you to be appropriate with Mister Baggins, if I let you go off and get changed now?”

Thorin clenched his fist around his pipe and nodded. “You have my word, Master Gamgee.” He was most definitely not blushing. Not one bit, the heat on his face was from the sun. Thorin was going to skewer a hobbit before the end of the night, he just knew it. ‘Mahal give me strength.’

He took his leave and led three of the boys to Bag End. Thorin couldn’t find Bilbo right away and assumed he was deeper into the smial. He sent the boys to the cold larder and each of them took platefuls of food out. Very soon, more of the young hobbits arrived, and each of them were sent on their way with another load of food.

While they were busy emptying the larder, Thorin went deeper into the smial and stopped by the bathroom door. It was shut and he could hear water lapping against the side of the tub. Satisfied that Bilbo was all right for now, he ducked into his bedroom to change for the party. Thorin wasn’t much for spending money on clothes. So long as it was well made he didn’t see a need for the unneeded expense.

Still, clothing seemed to mark some kind of status within Hobbiton and Bilbo prided himself on being well put together. Thorin understood that from his father and a lot of his court training, but it applied differently here in the Shire. Bilbo used it as a kind of shield, a defence against what the others might whisper. Realizing that had meant eschewing his usual outfits for one night at least. The tailor in Bree had been very accommodating and understood hobbit sumptuary, and did a decent job of blending dwarven stylings into the overall piece.

It took all his will to go without shoes, and he had them in his hands more times than he could count before he finally stepped from his bedroom, leaving them behind. He came into the main room, adjusting the jacket for proper fit and buttoned it closed when he heard a sharp gasp.

“By all that is green,” Bilbo managed and clasped his hand over his mouth.

Thorin looked down at his outfit. “Did I get it right?”

“Did you –” Bilbo was speechless.

He’d never seen Bilbo speechless before. It was an interesting sight. Thorin smiled and closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead.

“If all it took to make you speechless was a waistcoat, I might have decided to wear one earlier.”

Bilbo scrunched his nose and huffed a laugh. “You are incorrigible.” He wrapped his arms around Thorin. “Though you might as well take that lovely jacket off, I’d hate to see it get dirty while we set things up.”

“That’s all been taken care of,” Thorin said and smiled at the confused moue on Bilbo’s face. “You have some very fine cousins, Bilbo. Rorimac and his kin have been setting things up since luncheon.”

“Oh, they didn’t have to,” Bilbo fretted. Thorin watched as Bilbo clenched his hands. “I don’t want them to get in trouble. Gorbadoc is generally a fine fellow, but if Isengrim says something, Gorbadoc follows suit.”

“Perhaps, but it is nice to see your cousins not following in their path.” Thorin said and took Bilbo’s hands in his. “Before we go down there, could you do me a favour?”

“Anything, Thorin.”

“I would like to braid your hair. And I would very much like for you to braid mine.”

Bilbo reached up to touch his short curls. “I don’t know if mine’s long enough, but you’re welcome to try.” He said with uncertainty written clear in his features.

Thorin placed a chaste kiss to his lips, any more and they would need Hamfast’s intervention once more. That was something he would like not to repeat, ever. He guided Bilbo to sit on the foot stool by the armchair and took a careful seat. Years of practice braiding his own hair and that of his nephews had given him the dexterity necessary to wrangle Bilbo’s unruly curls into some order and separate the strands.

It was a simple three part plait that started at the right temple and followed the curve of his skull up and behind his ear. Once completed, he slipped a bead onto the end. It was silver with a Durin blue stone in the centre along with his crest. It wasn’t the gold he wished to put in Bilbo’s hair, but it would do for now, and it was one of his own, which had more significance.

“Finished?”

“Yes, it’s finished.”

Bilbo stood and took the small hand mirror off one of the tables. He looked at appraising, fingering the metal clasp at the bottom. “Is this one of yours?”

“For now, later I will make you several of them.”

“Thorin you really don’t – wait, before I say something more about shiny things, is this a tradition among your people?” Bilbo asked as he set the mirror down and went back over Thorin.

The switched spots with Thorin perched on the foot stool and Bilbo standing above him. “And if that’s the case, is there a specific braid I should be putting in your hair?”

Thorin chuckled. “There are many traditions detailing braids, the types and their uses. The one I gave you is a type of courting braid.” He handed Bilbo a clasp. “You can do a similar one in my hair for now. You’ll learn all of this in no time Bilbo, trust me.”

Bilbo shook his head, but said nothing and carefully plaited Thorin’s hair in similar manner, taking care not to disturb the other braids in place. Thorin shivered each time his fingers carded through his hair and Bilbo made a point of doing that as much as possible. As Bilbo curved the braid around Thorin’s ear, Thorin had to stifle a groan.

“Perhaps you should have warned me that you were a little sensitive to this?” Bilbo tried to joke. “I’d have invited Hamfast over as chaperon.”

Thorin cleared his throat. “I would have, had I known that was a possibility,” he said. “Also please don’t fetch Hamfast, I promise to behave impeccably.”

Bilbo finished the braid and Thorin felt the clasp tighten around his hair to close with a snick. Lips brushed against his ear and he shivered. “I never promised any such thing.”

 

*

 

The party was an utter failure.

His cousins had been supportive, and some of his childhood friends had been there for a time. No one had lingered for very long, and the conversations had been stilted or had felt very forced. In all the long years since his parent’s death, he missed them more that night under the Party Tree than any other point in his life.

Thorin had been wonderful, and present and absolutely stunning in his deep blue weskit and red jacket. The crisp linen of his shirt had shone brightly against the dark colours and it had taken all of Bilbo’s strength not to drag his dwarf back up to the smial and discover some new sensitive places.

But that truly wouldn’t have been gentlemanly and Hamfast had been right, the rumours about them were horrible enough as it was. None of his Baggins relatives came, and none of the Tooks either. Overall it had been a rather pathetic party for all involved.

Thorin had taken him home after his short, stilted speech concluded and the gifts had been handed out. Hamfast said he would see to the rest. Bilbo had spent most of the night getting blind stupid drunk on as much ale as he could get his hands on and was in no mood for anyone or anything. He couldn’t stop disappointment from clawing at his throat. The creeping anger as it choked him there amongst his younger cousins. Not a single adult had deigned to show up. Not a one. Mirabella had come by to fetch her children and gave him a pitying look.

In the midst of all the disappointment and anger, he felt a gnawing sense of guilt. Guilt that he wasn’t appreciative enough of their efforts.  Guilt at being a poor host. And a near fatalistic dread that he had completely disappointed every single one of his relatives, most especially his parents.

He couldn’t voice it. Couldn’t put a name or a word to even a tenth of what he was feeling. He could only cling embarrassingly to Thorin as he was carted back up the hill and into his bed.

Sleep did little to improve his mood, nor did the hangover help. In fact, his mood continued to decline over the days and weeks after the party, and continued to get worse as Thorin’s departure approached.

Bilbo found himself going to his mother’s closet to stare at her old clothes. He had gotten rid of his father’s clothing over the years, recycled some into his own wardrobe once they had been taken in. But several of his mother’s dresses -- her favourites -- still sat in the closet wrapped in tissue paper. He couldn’t give them away, couldn’t see them on another hobbit, so they stayed locked away in his parents’ old room. Bilbo stared at them on their hooks and wondered if wearing a dress was really such a bad thing. Every instinct he had screamed against it. While cold logic said it was just a dress, a scrap of fabric. It carried no meaning beyond what was placed on it. A dress made him no less a male, did it?

Couldn’t he do this one thing? After all Thorin had done for him, all he had sacrificed with his forge and the loss of business. The obvious waste of his talents here making damnable hairpins when he could be the toast of Gondor for his skill in weaponsmithing. Did Bilbo have the right to say he loved Thorin if he couldn’t even wear a simple dress. Even his uncle had said it was only for a year.

But something stilled his hand. Bilbo knew that if he put that dress on, it would erase everything he worked for. It wouldn’t matter if he went to Lorien and went through their painful magicks, he could walk down to market naked and they would still remember when he wore a dress and let them call him Miss.

In the end he closed the closet, locked his parent’s old bedroom and went down the hall, guilt dogging his every step. He wasn't as strong as Thorin. He couldn't make that sacrifice. It twisted his gut and his felt nausea claw at his throat. He knew in his bones who he was, he knew that if he never made that next decision to go to Lorien it wouldn't really bother him. No, it only mattered that the rest of Hobbiton recognized him as who he was. He was a selfish coward of the highest order. Perhaps he didn't deserve Thorin's affections if he wasn't willing to go that extra step.      

Thorin was going back to Ered Luin for the winter. As he did every winter. He always left a few days after Bilbo’s birthday. It was the only way he’d get home in time. It was hard though, and Bilbo felt even worse for being so selfish as to want Thorin there, with him. He didn’t want to be alone.

A thought crept in, deep in the middle of the night it started nipping at him; he could go with Thorin. Maybe. That would be nice. If Thorin wanted him to go. What if he didn’t? What if Bilbo put himself out there and Thorin didn’t want him to go? Bilbo wasn’t a warrior. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t hold his own in a forge or handle even tell the difference between one gem and another. He couldn’t grow a beard, there wasn’t enough Stoor blood in him to add more than a sparse bit of hair to his arms. Dwarven women had more hair than Bilbo. He reached up and touched the bead that still hung in his hair and chewed on his lip to hold back the tears. He didn’t doubt Thorin’s affections for him, but they were in the Shire right now.

What if he and Thorin went back to Ered Luin together? What if Thorin saw him in a different light and realized the mistake he was making? Bilbo would have to go home in shame and heartbreak and he couldn’t handle that. The thought of Thorin rejecting him like that was too much.

His tumultuous thoughts robbed him of sleep so he took himself to the kitchen and started baking. He wouldn’t ask to go with Thorin, he wouldn’t put himself out there like that. If Thorin asked him to, that was another matter entirely, and Bilbo knew he wouldn’t have the strength to refuse Thorin’s offer.

Bilbo baked scones, and cookies, and made several loaves of bread, until the smial smelled of yeast and sugar. By the time he was finished he had a basket full of things for Thorin, including several lemon-blueberry cakes, and a few of the meat pasties he loved. It didn’t really help Bilbo feel better; short of Thorin staying and the whole Shire getting over this ridiculous tiff, not much would.

Later that morning he helped Thorin pack his cart and close down the forge, a ritual the two of them had developed over the years. Several times Thorin stopped to look at him, and Bilbo swore he could see a question in his eyes.

Each time he thought Thorin was about to speak, Bilbo would squeeze his hand, or ask about the placement of one of his tools. Bilbo prided himself on not commenting on the weather. It was hard enough letting Thorin go back home. Bilbo knew he would see him in the spring, but it wasn’t tomorrow. It wasn’t two weeks from now. The winter was going to be very lonely. Perhaps the loneliest one since his mother had passed.

Thorin left by mid-morning, but not before pulling Bilbo into the shadows of the forge and kissing him thoroughly enough to make the hobbit’s head spin and his breathing erratic. He touched the bead in Bilbo’s hair and whispered in his guttural and beautiful language. Then he climbed into the wagon and with a flick of his wrists he set the ponies to their slow march out of Hobbiton, taking the North Pass on his way back to his family.

Bilbo watched from the doorway of the forge. He watched until he could no longer see even the a trace of the cart as it turned the final bend out of Hobbiton proper. He waited until he could no longer hear the familiar creak of the wood, or the grunting sounds from the ponies. He stayed there until Thorin's voice became memory, and the only thing left of his dwarf was his scent, that still clung to Bilbo's clothing from their last fierce embrace.

Only then did he leave, and make the slow climb back to his very empty smial and tried not to think that this was the last time he’d see his Dwarf. He comforted himself by going into the main living room and setting the cherry wood box on his lap, running his fingers across the carvings. After his heart calmed some he opened the box to marvel once again at the workmanship of the blade inside.

Thorin loved him. He had said it many times, and this gift was proof. He would see him again. Spring would come again, he would see Thorin. Yes.

Bilbo didn't think his heart could take any other possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amrâlimê - My Love  
> Ghivashel - Treasure of Treasures  
> Larjd'amral - Light of my Soul  
> kurdêl - Supreme Heart  
> ebnel - greatest gem  
> ibinlakhdur - gem of light  
> ulkhadunurtê - Brightness of my day  
> Nu'ibnul - gem-like one  
> hulwbasân - sweet feet  
> mesmel du'kurdu - greatest jewel of my heart
> 
> Two chapters left!! Are you excited? I'm excited.


	15. Respectability Be Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring has come again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Striving-Artist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist) and [ The Ladyy Zephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyzephyr/pseuds/theladyzephyr) Are fantastic, and you should go and read their amazing fics.
> 
>  
> 
> Also there's a lot of allusions to depression in this chapter. I just wanted to let people know. Again if I'm not tagging for something, please let me know and I'll add it.

#  ** Respectability Be Damned **

He started receiving visitors twelve and one half days after Thorin’s departure. First his aunt Mirabella had come by with some baked goods and some blistering talk about stubborn family members. He thought this was her way to apologize, and though he wanted to yell and throw a temper tantrum worthy of a faunt he held his tongue, smiled politely and offered her tea.

That’s what an adult did, wasn’t it? Bit their tongue until they tasted blood with each sip of tea, spoke of the weather and how life in Brandyhall was going. The only real benefit was getting to sit with Prim and sneak her extra treats while Mira went off on what the Bolgers were doing.

The visit concluded with his aunt clucking her tongue over the state of his pantry – he was still having difficulty in obtaining items at market – with a shake of her head she left with Prim in tow. A few hours later there was a knock on his door and several of the boys, Rorimac included, were standing outside with bags of groceries and other items.

Other visitors arrived following his aunt. Apparently her consent was all they needed to remove the stigma. It was perplexing to him really, since nothing had changed. In fact, by all accounts he’d become even less respectable, showcasing a blade in his living room, wearing a very unhobbitish hairstyle. He practiced braiding in the mirror daily to get it right. Sometimes it took three or four tries before he was satisfied. But it kept the bead in his hair. Its weight was a necessary reminder that things would get better, that Thorin cared.

As the weeks progressed and the weather cooled, that sentiment became harder and harder to hold onto. It seemed most of the Shire was under the impression that Thorin had left him. They were all treating him as if he were the jilted party in a relationship. He tried to set them straight, no, Thorin had not left him, he had just returned home for winter like he did every year and would return in spring.

Some hobbits would apologize and quickly change the subject to something else. Others were less inclined, and thought it necessary to disabuse him of his silly notions. Lobelia was one such hobbit.

“Bilbo, you can tell me, we used to be friends, yes?” Lobelia said sipping tea.

“For the last time Lobelia, I’m not hiding anything. Thorin will return with spring as he always has.”

“I only ask because I’m concerned. I suppose he seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he wasn’t a hobbit my dear. And you aren’t a dwarf.” She set her cup down and took one of the biscuits. “Really Bilbo, he made you a knife. It’s a pretty knife I’ll grant you that. But it is a knife. It’s like he doesn’t even know you.”

Bilbo looked over at the blade in its box. “I’m not sure of the significance of it in dwarvish culture, but the blade has meaning, Lobelia. And it’s meaningful to me.”

“Still not very hobbitish. Also if he was going for a flower, larkspur was the wrong choice.”

“Larkspur? What are you talking about?”

“The pink and green rocks on the end of the blade thingy, they look like larkspur.”

“They’re gems, Lobelia, I highly doubt Thorin intended them to go in a particular order.” He took a sip of tea. “And if he did, it would be more in keeping with something dwarvish than hobbitish.”

“Larkspur means fickle,” Lobelia said.

“How are your parents doing, Lobelia?” Bilbo changed the subject and let Lobelia prattle on about her parents and the rest of Hobbiton for a time.

She wasn’t the only one that called attention to the Larkspur arrangement across the hilt of his blade. Bilbo couldn’t see it, tried not to see it. Desperately hoped that his relatives were just seeing patterns in things that weren’t there.

But, as the weeks continued to pass, and no news came from Ered Luin, Bilbo began to fret. Usually he’d receive at least one letter if not several through the early months before the snows closed off the pass. Bilbo hadn’t received a single letter and it was nearly two months gone now.

He’d sent his own. Wrote twice a week as part of his usual correspondence. Spoke of very private things in some of those letters. The more time that passed the more he worried. Perhaps Thorin had been injured. Perhaps there had been an accident of some kind. That didn’t make sense though, if something had happened Thorin’s sister would have gotten in touch. Though they had never communicated directly, he knew of Dis, and he knew that Dis was well aware of him, judging by his inclusion in several of her missives to Thorin over the years.

It couldn’t be injury, or some accident. So it was something else, and that something else was keeping him up at night. The more of his relatives and visitors commented on either the bead, or the dagger, the less patience Bilbo had.

It became difficult to change the subject. He did his best to maintain some kind of respectability during these conversations, especially since a very large part of him wanted to scream and throw things. The only hobbit he could be completely honest around was Hamfast. And if he bothered his poor gardener one more time with these petty trivialities he was going to scream.

The winter did nothing to improve his mood, and he stopped returning replies to parties and offers for tea. He apologized and rescheduled tea time in his own home as many times as he could. He didn’t leave his smial during Yuletide. And he stopped baking.

He wrote letter after letter to Thorin, but he never heard a reply. The snows had well and truly come down and it was middle of January now. The pass was blocked and there was no way to get any letters through, not even the rooks from the Great Smials were flying at this time of year.

It was a very long winter in Bilbo’s opinion and the snows needed to go, to be gone and immediately. But they continued as they often did throughout February and into March. Hamfast came by with disturbing regularity. He would make tea and sit with Bilbo for hours on end, even when Bilbo said nothing, just sat and looked out the window.

He would make sure that there was something on for supper and on more than one occasion he took over the laundry. Bilbo started doing things around the smial again if only to keep the guilt at bay. The Valar knew he didn’t need more rumours spreading about his unseemly relationship with Hamfast. His friend didn’t need to be dragged through the mud that way. Not when he was courting Bell Goodchild.

Bilbo tried to get Hamfast to stop, tried to ignore his incessant knocking and his kind and worried face. All but screamed at the poor fellow only to feel horrendous and lock himself in his room for hours. He was a rotten friend, a rotten hobbit, a rotten son. He was complete and utter rubbish.

March was worse. He stayed in bed most days, only got up when he absolutely had to, and slept later each day than the last. He just stopped doing anything. No matter how many times he told himself that Thorin would return in a few weeks, the smial was a mess, he was a mess. He couldn’t find the energy to get himself to do more than the bare minimum.

Hamfast still came by. He stopped knocking and just walked into the smial now. He never made Bilbo feel bad even though the poor hobbit fretted more than six hobbits combined. Still he was a desperately good friend. One Bilbo certainly didn’t deserve. He said as much on more than one occasion when Hamfast bullied him into a bath and fed him.

“Nonsense, I’m doing what any good friend would do,” he said and fill Bilbo’s bowl up with more soup. “Also, I have a healthy respect and fear of your Mister Thorin, and I don’t think he’d take too kindly to anything happening to you.”

Bilbo looked up at Hamfast and raised an eyebrow in question. “Healthy respect?”

“Scared enough to mess my drawers if you don’t mind me being blunt. I’ve seen that fellow of yours practicing his swords. He could chop me in two right simply.”

Bilbo humphed and went back to his food. “You seem awfully certain he’s going to return.”

“Oh now, Mister Bilbo, don’t you be thinking anything different.  I don’t care what the rest of the Shire is saying, he’s going to come back, you’ll see.”

He wanted to believe Hamfast, he really did. But it was getting very hard not to listen to the others as they offered their explanations. No matter how many times he looked at the blade or how often he touched the bead it didn’t help anymore.

At some point between the middle of March and the end of it, he started cleaning again. Not because he felt like it, or even that he was starting to feel better. But because the guilt of leaving the smial in its current state, coupled with Hamfast’s unfailing kindness had worked enough guilt into him that he could do nothing but purge it through work.

It took him weeks to do what should have taken days. But when the snows melted, and the sun started shining in earnest the smial was clean, and so was he. This did not bring about a fantastic or sudden change in his mood or demeanor, such as he’d hoped. He still felt like crawling back under his covers and ignoring the rest of Middle Earth. Still felt alternately worried and empty.

He hoped Thorin’s arrival proved the balm that he needed to keep the dark at bay. But even that was fool’s hope. His relationship with Thorin was not a magical cure. Though part of him desperately wished it to be.

The weather continued to warm and still there was no sign of Thorin. Still no letters. Bilbo started going to the market again, to resupply his larders and pantries, and to spy on the forge. It remained empty for days, for weeks.

It was well into Aston when he noticed a change. The forge was open and there was smoke coming from the stack. Bilbo felt his heart leap and he ran over to the entrance, ignoring the stares from the other hobbits.

“Thorin!” He cried, “You’re awfully late this year, I hope nothing happ- Who are you?” Bilbo stopped at the threshold staring at the unfamiliar dwarf. He was older, with grizzled features and a red bushy beard and his hair was braided in crisscrossing plaits. He had a patch over one eye and he looked at Bilbo balefully.

“Name’s Nari, Master Hobbit. If you want to order anything, leave it with my son, he tends to the orders.” With that the dwarf ignored him and turned back to the fire once more.

Bilbo shook his head and cleared his throat a few times before he could find the words. “What happened to the previous owner?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. If that is all, Master Hobbit, I have work to be done.”

Bilbo nodded and shuffled from the forge. He left the market and made his way up to the smial. So that was it then. He and Thorin were finished, and this was how he decided to tell him. By selling the forge. That’s why there had been no letters.

_Oh you foolish, stupid, silly, hobbit,_  the thought repeated in his head over and over, a mantra of all his confessions and his secrets poured out in ink. Page after page of his deepest fears and desires, all for Thorin’s amusement. Oh he had been such a fool.

He sat on his bench outside his home for some time. Hours ticked by, and he wasn’t sure if he had visitors or not. He couldn’t really see beyond the few inches in front of his face, and that was remarkably blurry for some reason. A handkerchief was handed to him and he wiped at his eyes enough to see Lobelia sit down next to him.

She didn’t say a word, but sat stiffly next to him as his shoulders shook silently. It took him several tries to breathe properly, his lungs wouldn’t fill right, and the heaviness in his chest kept getting worse with each breath. Eventually the tear subsided and he handed the handkerchief back, Lobelia pocketed and stood up.

“You will get over this, Bilbo Baggins. You’re stronger than it.”

“How would you know what I’m stronger than?” Bilbo asked unkindly.

“You’ve withstood an entire town snipping behind your back since you were a child. What’s one dwarf with fickle affections?” Lobelia let out a sigh. “I’m not good at helping people, I don’t have a sympathetic bit in my body, but I will not see you waste yourself like this because of _him_.”

She handed him a clean handkerchief, opened her mouth to say something more, but thought better of it, and set off toward the market.

Bilbo sat there for a while longer and stared at the piece of cloth in his hands. He was so focused on the stitching that he didn’t hear the approaching sound of hooves until they were nearly on top of him. He jumped back from the large beasts and followed the line of a leg up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun against elven metal.

“Bilbo Baggins as I live and breathe,” The tall elf swung down off his horse and Bilbo let out a squeak of recognition.

“Glorfindel? What in the Valar?” Tears started again and his body shook. In seconds he was wrapped in a hug from the elf.

“We received your letter regarding your mother, Bilbo and came to pay our respects.”

Bilbo wrapped his arms tightly around his friend and tried to collect himself. It took all of his strength to release Glorfindel and step back. He cleared his throat and nodded once. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry to be such a mess right now. Please, come in, the both of you. Gildor, how have you been?”

“Very well, Mister Baggins. I’m sorry you have had to deal with such trying times.”

“Oh,” Bilbo waved a hand and ushered his two friends inside his smial. “I’ll have the guest bedroom cleaned and aired out in no time. But first how about a bit of wine perhaps?”

Glorfindel smiled and hung up his cloak on the small row of hooks by the door. “Do you have any of Elrond’s special bottles left?”

Bilbo blushed and shot the other elf an embarrassed smile. "I'm quite sure I still have the bottle that almost brained Erestor.”

 

“Oh that's a good one!”

 

“I’ll be back in just a moment.”

He came back to the kitchen carrying two bottles of Elrond’s wine and set them on the table. He busied himself collecting glasses, washing the more appropriately sized ones for his two friends. Gildor was seated at the table, but Glorfindel was in the other room.

“Ah, you definitely had an eye for wine, Mister Baggins, this was an exceptional year.”

“Bilbo, that blade of yours, I’ve never seen its like.” Glorfindel said as he took a seat at the low table. “It’s dwarvish make yes? Was it a gift from one of your mother’s friends?”

Bilbo felt his heart constrict at the mention of his knife. He wasn’t sure what to say, but the inquiry about his mother caught his attention.

Gildor cleared his throat and Bilbo caught a quick hand signal pass between the two of them.

“Oh, not your mother’s friend,” Glorfindel held out his glass. “Are congratulations in order, mellon nín?

Bilbo closed his eyes to stem the flow of tears, but the news from that morning was still too fresh and he had no defenses left to him now. He sat down at the table and poured out his heart between shaking sobs. At some point he found himself pressed against Glorfindel’s side and the two elves were silent during his complete breakdown.

It took several moments for him to calm himself enough to stop shaking.

“Bilbo, I’m sorry this has happened to you.” Glorfindel said in the ensuing silence.

“I should be apologizing for that display,” Bilbo said and blew his nose into his kerchief. “I don’t know what came over me to admit to all of that. I fear it was very unhobbitish of me.”

“You’ve had a trying year, and it’s been a lot to handle. But, we are here now, and we’ll help you. Even if it means taking you all the way to Ered Luin to go after that dwarf of yours.”

Bilbo shook his head. “No, no, no no, no, no. I can’t do that. He’s made his choice, he’s sold the forge, he hasn’t written, I can see it quite plain. He wanted to break it off and this was how he chose to do it.” Bilbo stood. “Please, I think I’ve spoken of this enough today. I’ll put something on for supper, and then if you’re not in a hurry, tomorrow we can go visit mum’s grave. I think she would have been happy to know you dropped by.”

Glorfindel cast a glance at Gildor, but said nothing, for which Bilbo was ever grateful. The rest of the evening was spent discussing the wider world, and life beyond the Shire. Lots of wine was consumed, much more than Bilbo had ever had reason to drink himself, but it was lovely to not have to feel so wretchedly empty for a time.

 

*

 

His friends stayed in Bag End for a week. As their departure date drew nearer, the thought of saying goodbye to yet another group of friends left Bilbo feeling wretched and lonely. The emptiness that had settled into his bones during the winter was still there. It hadn’t left him, as much as he had hoped. But Glorfindel and Gildor were kind and caring and they seemed not to mind his maudlin behaviour.

Between them and Hamfast, he was handling things, but he couldn’t sleep, and the smial had become an empty hollow cage around him. Bilbo wasn’t sure when the change had taken place, when his parent’s home had stopped being his, but there it was.

The evening before their departure he made his choice known. Hamfast tried to talk him out of it, told him he just needed more time. Bilbo was having none of it. He needed to go, to leave and get as far away from his memories and the heartache as possible.

He drew up the necessary documents, putting Bag End in trust with Hamfast and his family. Should anything happen to him, the smial would go to Prim when she came of age. That would set the Shire’s tongues wagging. He drew up a set of instructions for collecting rents and handling all his correspondence. Then he set about packing.

Neither of his elven friends tried to dissuade him, for which he was very grateful. Bilbo packed light, taking only the essentials, but making sure to pack the box that carried his blade away, wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from the weather should it turn nasty between the Shire and Rivendell.

It was going to be a long trip, and perhaps he’d only stay a short time, but he needed to get away from this place. The sooner the better.

Morning arrived far too early for him and the others, but they packed the horses with the extra supplies, and made a quick breakfast to eat on the road. With one last look over the smial, Bilbo turned the lock and handed the key over to Hamfast.

“You come back now, Bilbo. I’ll keep this place right as can be for you. I promise.”

“I know you will, my friend. Take care.” Bilbo turned and was helped onto the horse in front of Glorfindel. The decision not to purchase another pony had been made to increase travel time, but Bilbo was already questioning that decision. No other choice for it though. He settled himself into the saddle properly and blinked when he was handed his blade.

“You might need this on the road mellon nín, better to have it on your person than hidden away when danger approaches.”

Bilbo took hold of the hilt, once again marvelling at its lightness. Carefully, he attached the leather sheath to his belt and then set the blade inside. Its weight felt odd against his hip, a constant reminder of his inadequacy as a warrior.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat he waved goodbye to Hamfast, and the three of them set off for the main roads. They rode for a while, putting distance between themselves and the shire, only to come to a halt at a crossroad. Bilbo looked up in question at Glorfindel.

“That way will take us over Emyn Uial, it’s one of the quickest paths to Ered Luin,’ Glorfindel said. He offered no further explanation, just waited with his hands on the reins.

Bilbo stared down that path for several long moments, the blade at his side getting heavier and heavier. Finally he turned away and shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t go to him, to find out that he really didn’t care, or that he found someone new. I can’t tie him to the Shire. It’s a small place, too small, and his gifts are being wasted there. Perhaps he’s found a way to work closer to home.”

“Bilbo, it might not be all that bad, you realize.”

“Perhaps it’s not, but right now I’m only a silly hobbit, I can’t hold my own in a fight. I don’t even have proper standing with my own people to fall back on. I can’t expect him to change everything about himself to fit into my life.”

“And neither can he expect you to change to accommodate his life, either. It’s compromise, Bilbo.”

Bilbo gave Glorfindel a watery smile. “That’s what I’m doing my friend. I’m compromising. You are going to teach me how to fight.”

Glorfindel let out a bark of laughter. “Am I, little friend? I suppose you have the right of it. If that is what you wish Bilbo I will do my best to teach you.” He flicked the reins and they continued down toward the East Road. “Tell me, after I make a fine warrior out of you, are you going to march into Ered Luin and claim yourself a dwarf husband? I should like to see that if you do.”

Bilbo shrugged. “Perhaps, I have yet to decide where things may lead. Right now it feels good to just make the decision to fight. The rest will take care of itself.”

 

*

 

It took them ten days to travel to Rivendell. Much faster than his memories of the first trip. But it had been a hard slog, even with a rest day in Bree. He spent the first few days in Rivendell sleeping and resting his poor abused arse. When he did leave his room he cursed Glorfindel and Gildor for looking as rested as they did. Elves.

His friend did not give him much time to mope. In fact after his two days of rest he was dragged out to the practice yard. Glorfindel did not go easy on him. Did not let him relax. Did not give him a chance to truly catch his breath. It was horrible and grueling and often Bilbo would land back in his room after practice and fall asleep before he had a chance to contemplate anything else.

Time continued to pass, he continued to show up for Glorfindel to train him. It wasn’t as if he really wanted to be a warrior. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. But the act of doing _something_ , instead of sitting around and waiting for life to happen to him was giving him some purpose.

Was he happy? No. There was no happiness here. There was no bright joy. It was all muted grey. It was dull sounds and flashes of silver. It was aching muscles and tired feet. It was hot baths and bandages. It was worried looks from Erestor and Elrond.

But summer faded to autumn and still he had no plans to head back to the shire. No he wasn’t happy in Rivendell, but he had found something there. A way to put aside his heartache and his loneliness. No one seemed at all surprised by his unhobbitish hairstyle. Nor did they have opinions regarding his love life or lack thereof. They made him feel welcome and offered him his old room.

After three months of training he was finally able to hold a conversation in the evenings without falling asleep. He mined the Rivendell library for any and all information regarding dwarven customs and found very little to satisfy his search. Most were historical texts prior to the enmity that had grown between elves and dwarves. And very little was mentioned about their secrets.

He was quite sure that some of the older elves, Elrond and Glorfindel were aware of the dwarvish language. But he never asked them to share their knowledge, and did not they offer.

That first year was the hardest, the most difficult, in all the ways it usually is. It dragged by, with each plodding day following another. It wasn’t until Yuletide and the winters had truly settled in the elven city that things seemed to change. Time righted itself.

It was easier being away from the Shire. There was less to think about, less reason to be respectable. He started going hunting with the twins. At first it was game, meat for the feast tables. By the summer of his third year he started hunting Orc.

He had armour made for him, a gift from Elrond. A bow was gifted to him next by Gildor and he spent many hours training with it just as he had with his small blade. Both required him to be quick and agile, both took advantage of his size.

Hunting Orc had been an accident really. It started off as a simple game hunt near the Misty Mountains. But Orc packs were becoming braver and he and his friends had picked up their trail easy enough.

The battle, such as it was, had been heated, over too fast, and he had nearly gotten himself killed twice. But he took down two himself, and at that night’s revelries there had been stories about him. About his skill. And yes it wasn’t very hobbit-like of him, having his name bandied about amongst elves, and talk of killing, and no he didn’t feel very comfortable with the idea that he had killed something. Even an Orc. But it was something a warrior could proud of, something even his mother might be proud of. Not the killing, but defending his friends, and being true to himself.

He stopped hunting game, and started hunting orc. With the twins mostly, Glorfindel tended to go further afield and could be gone long months. But there were times when he was in Rivendell and the two of them would head into the mountains and harry the Orcs. It became fun. It set his blood running in a hot fever and he forgot his pain and dealt more with each blow his little knife dealt.

He earned a nickname in those mountains. The orcs called him Kaprul Pauzul, Glorfindel told him it meant small demon, and Bilbo felt a little sick at the thought of such a title. He had developed scars over the years, small ones, blades he’d narrowly missed, rocks he’d been dashed upon during fights. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize his own face. Didn’t know who was looking back at him.

Ten years spent in Rivendell changed in Bilbo Baggins. His hair was longer. He still had a dwarvish bead in his hair, a habit now more than a reminder. The rest of his hair was unbraided, but it hung shaggy to his shoulders in unkempt curls. His eyes were flatter, and he’d stopped smiling.

He was in the library when the letter from The Shire arrived. It was old, perhaps two years, and had seen a lot of weather by the look of it, but it spoke of the impending death of the Thain and a wish to make amends. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was up for it, whether he wanted to forgive Isengrim for what had happened. Or even if he blamed him for it at all now.

But something drew him back. So he packed up his meagre belongings, said goodbye to his friends, and returned to the Shire. He didn’t push the journey, and the twins accompanied him until he reached the outer border near the Sarn Ford. There they parted company and he continued until he reached the Great Smial.

He wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he was expecting, but news of his arrival preceded him. He was welcomed by his cousin Fortinbras and his wife Lalia.

“Bless all that is green, what in the name of all the Valar have those dwarves done to you?” Lalia exclaimed as she bullied Bilbo into the main dining hall and down at the table.

“I haven’t been with the dwarves, cousin. I was in Rivendell,” Bilbo said as he took a seat. The table was veritably groaning with food. Before he could choose anything, Lalia took over and filled his plate much too full. Hobbit meals had been eschewed for the last several years, and Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to eat much of what she put down.

“Oh we assumed we took off after your dwarf friend, considering all the nonsense that old Isengrim had started.”

“Now, dear, there’s no need speaking ill of uncle.”

“I will if I like, the hobbit’s treatment of your cousin was absolutely abysmal. Everyone assumed the worst when you left. Ran off to join with your dwarf, and forget out our ways. Got yourself killed on the road was another rumour that spread. We weren’t sure where to find you, but Isengrim was insistent we send out the letter. We sent it off with the rangers, if anyone could find you they were sure to.”

Bilbo picked at his food as Lalia continued speaking, nodding occasionally. The rumour that he had died was rather morose, but considering hobbits he supposed it was to be expected.

“I’m sorry I was so late in receiving the letter. What happened?”

“Old Isengrim took sick. It was a short illness, but he wanted to make amends for his behaviour. Father took over as Thain for a time, but he too passed last year,” Fortinbras said. “We’ve been having harsher winters these last two, and it’s been rather difficult on the folk around here.”

“What about the bounders? Are they still following the training they were given?”

“That was twenty years ago Bilbo, most of the older set still remember some of it, but they’re too out of practice to be of real use. Where’s that dwarf of yours, certainly he can whip them into shape.”

Bilbo’s hand went to the bead in his hair and he shook his head. “He sold the forge remember, left the Shire. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Certainly you received the letters?”

“What letters, Fortinbras? Thorin never wrote me after he left.” Bilbo asked. The hair on the back of his neck raise and he had to quell the marrow deep fear Fortinbras’ words conjured  

Fortinbras looked over to his wife. “Are they still here? I thought we had sent them off.”

“No. I decided against it. The chances of even finding Bilbo with the one letter we sent was slim. I didn’t want to lose the rest of them in case things went poorly.” Lalia left the room in a flounce of skirts and returned later with a stack as thick one of the great books in Elrond’s library.

Bilbo shook his head, the bead flicking back and forth rapidly as he denied the sight before him. Carefully, reverently, he took hold of the letters. They were all dated, and started within days of Thorin’s departure, the last one was dated two years ago.

“Why… why do you have them?” He asked, as his hands shook. “Why were they never delivered to me?”

Fortinbras cleared his throat. “We found them when we cleared out Isengrim’s room. It seemed he had your mail rerouted through Tuckborough. I do not understand his reasons behind it, but I do believe that was another thing he sought penance over.”

“Penance… he sought penance. He made the last year of my life in the Shire miserable. He destroyed my parents reputation, and made a point of keeping me from the one person I truly believed cared about me,” Bilbo stood and tucked the letters in his satchel. “I’m not the hobbit I once was. I’m not sure if I could have ever given him absolution for what he did.

“I need to go check on Bag End. I’m not sure how long I plan to stay within the Shire, but I will send word. Please make sure to have any mail routed back to my smial in the meantime.”

He left, hopped on his pony and cut across overland through Tuckborough into Hobbiton. It took several hours but didn’t require staying in an inn. The letters in his satchel weighed him down and the more he thought about them the harder it was to concentrate on anything else.

But he couldn’t start reading them now. Not in the middle of the Shire. Soon though. He had to.

It was late when he arrived at his smial it had taken all his energy to get the key from Hamfast and not be pulled into the hobbit’s home for a drink and evening of reminiscing. He promised Hamfast time on the morrow when he had a chance to settle in, and get the grit from the road out from between his toes.

The smial had the scent of disuse about it. But it wasn’t dusty, and all his furniture had been covered and taken care of. He lit the fireplace and a few lamps to make the place seem less dreary.

The silence in the smial was a roar in his ears and he grabbed the satchel with the letters and hid them in his mother’s glory box. No, not tonight. Not now, he couldn’t read them now. He was too worn from the road, too keyed up from his meeting with Fortinbras.

Tomorrow, when he was refreshed, that was a better plan. He could sit down with a cup of tea and see about reopening those old wounds. For now he needed to sleep.

 

*

 

A week passed and the letters stayed hidden in the glory box. He had trouble acclimating to hobbit ways of doing things. He found himself taking long walks in the old forests. Going hunting at odd hours and camping in the woods at night because sleeping under the stars was a lot easier than trying to sleep in his empty smial.

Hobbits greeted him, but they whispered as soon as he turned his back. They commented on the blade he carried everywhere, they looked at him askance when his reactions were a little too quick. In short he wasn’t much of a hobbit as far as the Shire was concerned. Which was all right in his book, he didn’t feel like a hobbit. And if the things he’d been hearing about the last winter had been anything to go by, maybe the Shire didn’t need another hobbit.

Lalia Took arrived at his door seven days after his return. She stormed into his smial in a flounce of green and yellow skirts and pink petticoats and took up all the space on the loveseat. He poured tea and set out biscuits and they ate in silence for close to half an hour before she finally had to break it. He was almost impressed.

“Pity you don’t have any of those lemon cakes,” she said, sipping her tea with a loud slurp.

“I haven’t cooked in years aunt. And why would I make lemon cakes?”

“After the hullabaloo of prying that recipe from Camellia’s grasping hands, I would have thought you’d make them every day,” She said in a huff.

Bilbo gave a small shrug. “I got the recipe for --” Don’t say his name -- “You know. There’s no real need to make them anymore.”

Lalia snorted. “More’s the pity. I cannot believe you gave her one of your mother’s recipes. Of all the things to do, handing that wretched Camellia Sackville-Baggins your mother’s scone recipe.” She tutted and took a handful of biscuits. “Dreadful business that.”

Bilbo sipped his tea, looking at the pattern on the saucer.

“Bilbo… what did you do?”

“Hmm? Oh nothing,” he said with a thin smile. “I am my mother’s son, Lalia. I never said the recipe was accurate.”

Lalia’s booming laughter filled the smial, Bilbo did his best not to flinch at the cacophonous echo. He waited till she had calmed herself and he took her tea cup and refilled it.

“You had a purpose for coming by, today, Lalia?”

“That I did. She reached into her matching purse and pulled out a sheaf of paper. He opened it and on it was a name. “I’m afraid Lalia you have me at a loss. I don’t know a Emmon Undertree.”

“Nor would I expect you to, cousin. All the same, I remember you. I remember you as a child, and I remember when things changed with you. I remember Fell Winter. You always were a cautious hobbit, but even then you were different.

“That child, is like you.” Lalia said and picked up her tea cup.

Bilbo looked down at the paper, the pain of those years was as fresh to him now as then. Lalia was a brash and harsh woman, she ruled and bullied her way about everything. Fortinbras becoming Thain had not softened Lalia in the least. She was observant for all that. “Are you sure?”

“As sure the fur on my feet, cousin. Emmon is as lost as you were when you turned seventeen. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have Belladonna Took in his corner. He’s scared and I thought you might have picked up some of that elven healing magic on your travels.”

Bilbo made a noncommittal sound and set the paper down. “Has Emmon come to you. I ask because if you are right cousin this is a very delicate situation. And while I’m more than willing to dress down a grown hobbit in front of the market. I would have to tread carefully. Especially if this is mere conjecture on your part.”

Lalia waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure you’ll be able to help the poor thing.” She finished her tea in a large slurp and stood with difficulty. She handed the cup and saucer to Bilbo. “I scheduled a meeting with the poor dear and yourself for this afternoon. Don’t even try to tell me you are busy cousin, you never take any visitors.

“They will arrive at two.” She stopped at the door. “I’m not sure what you want to do, Bilbo. But your absence has caused a bit of a stir around here. Seems the younger generation are taking a page from your book, my dear cousin. The status quo has been bucked, you might find yourself needed around here.

“You certainly were missed.”

Lalia left and slammed the round door behind her. Bilbo was left perched between standing and sitting, gawping at her like a fish. Emmon arrived at two, and knocked on his door with such a timid hand, Bilbo was amazed he didn’t scare the poor creature half to death when he opened the smial door.

They sat in together in his kitchen and spoke of many things, his elf friends, what Rivendell looked like, had he ever seen an Orc before. Bilbo answered every question, and told several stories about his friends in Rivendell. He never pushed, hoping that the conversation would eventually bring about the child’s ease.

It didn’t happen that day, nor the following. But Emmon returned to Bag End every single day for a month. Each time he would ask when Bilbo expected to go back to the elves.

“Oh, someday,” he said. And they would speak of other things. Bilbo was reasonably sure his cousin was right. The last thing Lalia Clanhanger needed was to be proved right yet again, so he kept it to himself, and wrote to Elrond about the plants to help women. Elrond sent him a package with the necessary ingredients, with a note requesting Bilbo keep the dove for easier communication between friends.

Emmon’s admission some three months later, was the quietest, most heartbreakingly brave thing, Bilbo had ever witnessed. After many cups of tea, and even more tears, he and Emmon, now Rowan, settled on a plan.

Three more years passed before he opened the glory box, and spied the letters, resting innocently atop his travel coat. Part of him desperately wanted to open the letters, wanted to read them and hold them close.

But to read them, to open them, to let them see the light of day would be to give credence to their words. A decade had past and he still hated his cowardice following the party. Thorin deserved better. It was obvious that he had tried to make contact during that winter, Bilbo not responding had given the dwarf the push he needed to sell the forge and make his mark where he would be appreciated. After all, he couldn't expect Thorin to wait for him when Bilbo didn't even have the courage to wear a simple piece of cloth for year.

Worse still, there were other letters dated later. They continued for years after Bilbo had left Bag End. If he opened even one of them, he feared they might show him something worse than Thorin's disregard. They might show him the breadth of his cowardice. That his true reason for living in Rivendell all these years had not been to learn and prove himself to his dwarf. But an act of running of away, hiding like some skittering mouse.

It would either prove that Thorin had no feelings for him at all, or that Bilbo was the one with the truly fickle heart and had run away at the first opportunity rather than risk himself in love. In which case he had betrayed Thorin far worse than Thorin had ever hurt him. And how could he ever ask forgiveness for that? It was simple, he couldn’t. He couldn’t expect any forgiveness, nor could he ask for any.        

Better to live here, an outcast in the Shire, surrounded by relatives but not truly one of them. Better to hide in the woods and hunt and help the young ones like himself, so they could thrive and prosper. It wasn't what he wanted.  What he wanted was strong dwarvish arms, a deep voice, and a kind smile.  What he wanted didn't factor in to life anymore.  So he reconciled himself with what he had.  And hoped time would ease the ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mellon nin - my friend  
> Kaprul Pazul - small demon (please if anyone has a better knowledge of Black Speech, let me know if this is right) 
> 
> I love each and everyone of you who have been reading along and are enjoying this fic of mine. I'm going to go hide now.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Big round of applause to Striving Artist for being so awesome and wonderful. This is it, this completes part one. Enjoy!!!

1st, October, 2923  
Bilbo Baggins  
West Farthing, Hobbiton  
Shire

Rûzuduakyâlê,

 

That word is not nearly enough to convey what you mean to me. My love. My dearest. My greatest treasure. I have missed you as one misses their heart. You are the very best of me, and I fear that our parting has hurt you. I admit at the time I feared more that my presence was causing you pain. Those few months when I held you, when I felt your heartbeat next to mine, I swear to Mahal himself that it felt as if we were one.

I have tried to write this letter several times on the way from the Shire. I have gone through much of the parchment you put in my bags, I fear. But I have more. I would send you Ravens to sing to you if I but had one. There are many things I would give you. I miss you so terribly and I worry about you. I hope that the Shire and your uncle have finally seen the error of their ways. I hope they are treating you as a proper hobbit, one deserving of not only respect but the greatest of admiration.

I fear I am stalling. Even in writing I find this difficult to admit. I have not been honest with you mesmel du'kurdu-e, not completely. The truth of the matter is that I am more than a blacksmith as I led you to believe. I make no excuses for my behaviour and I never meant to deceive you. You are my everything, and I never in my wildest hopes ever thought that I would find you.

I am the leader of my people. I am King of the Longbeard Clan of the Dwarrow. Our Rightful home is Erebor. The Lonely Mountain sits in the East, far far away from here, taken from us by a dragon. I was very young when it came, perhaps only a few years older than you when we first met. I became king after the sudden loss of both my father and grandfather when I was Fifty-two. I have been King ever since.

For the first few years after settling in Ered Luin, life was better. But this mountain is sinking into the ocean. With each passing year the waters get higher. Before you were born I had to go back on the road. I was alone for a very long time Bilbo. I was away from my family for most of the year and only came home during the cold seasons.

It wasn’t until you saved my life that things changed for me. You have saved more than my life Bilbo. You saved me. I didn’t realize how lonely I had become until you filled every corner of it. I adore my family Bilbo, and I thank Mahal for them every day. But I thank him every moment for you.

I am so deeply sorry that I did not tell you of my title before now. At the time I was mistrustful, and honestly thought that you and your family had ill intentions. I learned very quickly that you were the kindest people I had ever met and wished me nothing but good fortune.

After that first year it became easier to pretend. I wasn’t the absent king, the king without a throne, the living failure of the Durin line. I was just Thorin. I was your Thorin. I was your friend, and I was a blacksmith. I was content with that. Bilbo for the first time in my life I was happy.

I know I was happy there with you. Because I am utterly miserable right now without you here. I feel like that is such a selfish thing to say after I have deceived you so. But I love you. And I wish to be with you for the rest of our lives. I hesitated at the forge that morning not because I did not wish you to come with me. I wanted to lift you up into my arms and carry you from that place in that instant. If I could go back I would. I would kiss you for all to see and I would take you away from there.

But two things stayed my hand. First I could never, ever, take you from your home. I’m not talking about the Shire. I’m talking about Bag End. It is your family’s home. It has all your memories from your childhood. It is a special to you as Erebor is special to me. I could not drag you from that place, it would be too cruel.   

Second, Ered Luin is not my home. It is sinking, and while I have been gone this last year there have been more injuries and more deaths. We must leave the mountain’s interior. We’ve managed to procure some land on the outside of the halls and they have broken ground to start building new homes. It is going to take a very long time to complete this project. Longer than I have patience to wait. I have to stay here and become the king as they expect me to be.

So I have a request.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my abhorrent disregard for your consideration, I would have you oversee the sale of the forge. Once you have done so, write to me, and I will come get you, I will bring you home here with me. I will come to get you myself with a retinue of my people and we will give you the birthday and welcome you deserve. I am a very poor king, Bilbo. I cannot give you everything I wish to.

I can only promise you that my heart will never waver. I love you with every beat. I worry for you daily, and I hope this letter finds you in good health. I hope to earn your forgiveness, and I hope to see you soon.

Should you be unable to grant forgiveness for my transgressions, I understand fully. I wish you all the very best in this life, and I thank you, for bringing some measure of happiness to mine.

Yours, eternally

 

Thorin Oakenshield

 

**\-------------------UNREAD-----------------**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rûzuduakyâlê - sun of my life  
> mesmel du'kurdu-e - greatest jewel of my heart
> 
>  
> 
> So that's it for part One. Really a big thank you to everyone who has read, who has reviewed, who has been on this journey with me with this fic, I am so happy that everyone has loved it. I'm just beside myself.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> *adad - Father  
> *amad - mother  
> *nadad - Brother  
> *namad - sister  
> *namadith - little sister  
> *udad - grandfather  
> *E'intihifi'astû - I beg of you (strifingartist found this, sweet!)  
> *uzbade - my King  
> *ghivashel - treasure of all treasures  
> *ghivashith - treasure that is little  
> *amrâlimê - my love


End file.
